Disparities and Equilibriums
by Alice Wednesday
Summary: "When we were younger, and you told me things were going to be okay. I believed you. You had a certainty, a conviction in your words that deep down you also believed. It's not there now. You couldn't convince yourself then that things were going to work out, because you didn't know if they would, you still don't." What if Hotch struggled to deal with the aftermath of 100?
1. Chapter 1

"_O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done._" - La Belle Dan Sans Merci - John Keats.

"_'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall._" - Measure for Measure - William Shakespeare.

* * *

He crosses his arms over his chest, and looks away from the scene. Because if he doesn't register it, then it isn't happening. When David Rossi clears his throat in that 'we-need-to-talk-this-is-serious' manner reserved only for unsubs, Aaron realises with sickening clarity that this is happening, and this is serious. He feels Rossi's eyes bore into him, willing Aaron to look at him. It's contest of who can break first, but he's not wearing his suit, that constant reassurance of power "You need help Aaron," Rossi's calm voice forces him to look from the hospital parking lot.

'It's none of your business' burns in his mouth and wants to dive head first from his tongue. But he reigns it in, he's being profiled after all, and he doesn't want to admit that he's already lost. Rossi's gaze is impartial, he's not sure if David is angry, concerned, or both. He doesn't want to be sure. He doesn't want to be here, and he can draw this out a little longer if he wants. "I'm perfectly fine Dave," he tries to make it casual, give the impression that he isn't bothered. Hunched over, and scowling he can't even trick himself. The rest of the world moves on around them, Rossi looks back to the younger man unimpressed. Four ambulances, three doctors, and five nurses go past before David speaks.

"I'm not playing this game Aaron, it's too late and I'm tired," Aaron wonders idly what gives him the authority to demand a response, _the response that he wants, does that make it the truth? _Aaron shakes his head, lying to himself failed when he was declared dead five hours ago. He isn't sure when he moved from crossing his arms, to holding himself together.

"It won't happen again," he diverts again, if David can't make time he'll leave him alone. The stupidity of this thought doesn't immediately occur to Aaron. What does, however, perhaps a little too late, is Rossi's composure. Fists clenched by his side, the narrowing of his eyes, and how, somehow, he appears to tower over Aaron without being taller than him.

David Rossi is angry, and for a moment Aaron isn't his boss.

"This isn't a missed homework assignment, or a screw up on the job! You almost died Aaron, in fact technically you were dead! Didn't you think how this would affect yourself, or the team, or your career!" he stops, breathing deeply. Aaron counts four more ambulances, three doctors and five nurses passing before David speaks again, his tone softer "Everything you've worked for is in jeopardy Aaron, Strauss is on my back about you, the team know _something _is up. What do you propose you do?"

Aaron almost shrugs, not as defiance, but because he really doesn't know. This loss is disconcerting, scary, and for the first time in awhile he wants someone to tell him what to do. He can't think of what to say, words stick to his tongue like paste and he can't talk. He meets David's eyes for the first time that night, the man is waiting. He goes for what is on his mind, a thought, a question. It's not a course of action, and it's not an admission. It's an 'asking-for-direction-without-asking-for-direction' phrase, "Is it worth it? Everything I've worked for?"

He cocks his head and looks at the older man, waiting. Rossi casts a critical eye on Aaron, he's pale, shaky, and the expression in his eyes is one he hasn't seen on the man in decades. It's a raw hurt, a genuine confusion. The twilight is ending, these questions don't have a short answer, and the man before him is spent.

"Let's get some coffee," he suggests uncertainly, half expecting a rejection he's surprised when the younger man nods. The acceptance almost makes him smile, and as he leads the disgraced and confused agent from A&E, he thinks perhaps there's some hope for him after all.

They end up in a diner with crappy filter coffee. The smell of pie is choking him, and the place seems unusually busy. Still the gaping black stares up at them from white porcelain mugs, and Aaron wonders how everything had lead to this one moment. If someone had told him a two years ago this was where he would be, he would have dismissed them angrily. Now, as he drinks the sickly sweetened, bitter coffee he's struck by how _real _all of this is. There is something inevitable about this scenario, and Aaron doesn't really know what to make of it.

At first he thinks they're going to spend the aging night in silence, he rubs his eyes, his body needs sleep. He looks to see David staring calmly at him, and it occurs to Aaron that the ball is in his court, it's sink or swim time. "I…" the words stick in his throat, refuse to come out, and he shakes his head. "I… I don't know what to do," loss coats his face, and he's painfully aware of his inability to draw his arms from around his torso. "Things have gone too far, yes, but… I can't think of a way out," he looks at David, gauging his reaction, aware for the first time of the need for David to believe him. To his surprise the other man smiles. "Why are you smiling?"

"You're admitting something, that's good, that's more than the old you would have told me," this sparks something in Aaron, an ignition of hope that there might be some way of reverting back to who he was.

But then Jack and Haley flash in his mind, and scar like the track marks on his arms. The reality of his ten pm coffee with David shows it's filthy head. And the hope slips away, because some things can be lost forever. He keeps his focus on the table, removing his arms from his chest only to organise the pepper and salt so they're sidebyside, and the napkin tray so it's dead centre on the table. He can't postpone this forever. "They're gone Dave, and… it's taken everything from me, but I always go back to it, it defines me and…"

"And?" Rossi prompts.

"I don't know if I can do it anymore," he says it with his eyes shut, and his fisted clenched. Articulation makes this fear real, this fear that has resided with him since Foyet. He doesn't look at Rossi, the spotted plastic table makes for a more interesting sight.

"I think you need to take time off Aaron," his voice is calm, neutral, and Aaron can't tell if he's still angry.

"To do what Dave?"

"Rest, recover, get that stuff out of your system."

Its then the fear sets in, a genuine fear that claws his insides and screams warning bells in his head. Because, this addi- this _thing _is his, his way of dealing with life, his way of coping. He doesn't know if he can cope without it.

Rossi isn't oblivious to the fear, the panic which he couldn't say he ever pictured to appear on Aaron's face. Still, he cares for the man as if he were his own son, and any course of action that won't lead to withdrawal… well, it isn't going to happen. He offers Aaron a sad smile, and watches as the man tries to regain some composure. He won't admit to him that in old jeans, and a paint flecked t-shirt there is little more poise left to be lost. "How do you propose I do that?" Aaron asks.

"I'll drive you to your apartment, and you can pack a bag, you'll stay at my place for the worst of it then go to a rehab clinic for rest," Rossi waits for Aaron to protest.

"I'm not going to rehab Dave, I… there is no… it isn't that bad," he hisses.

"You're going," Rossi states, short and simple. He can see Aaron trying to think of another argument, but right now the man looks incapable of standing, let alone carry a debate with a, despite suffering from tiredness, veteran FBI profiler. Rossi stands, and with a motion of his hand signals the glowering younger agent to follow suit. They pay the bill and leave quietly.

It isn't until they're in the car that Dave notices the shaking, and summarises Aaron's lack of attempt to hide it stems from tiredness. The streets are empty and they coast smoothly along to Aaron's apartment, the cold night air is a shock for both of them.

The lights are still on when they enter, the tourniquet and needle are still in the living room, and Rossi is disturbed by the impersonal air of the apartment. The man is alive, just. After ten minutes Aaron returns with a go-bag and a sweatshirt to combat the cold. He quickly disposes of the needle, and tourniquet, and David notices a distinct lack of eye contact.

"Go on, what's your profile," Aaron says wearily in the car. His body tenses, preparing for the invasion of privacy. One car journey, twenty passing cars, and some acute observations is all it takes for Aaron Hotchner's remaining composure to break down.

"You keep your arms crossed as though to distance yourself from the situation, and think it isn't happening. You treat the situation in a methodical manner suggesting detachment, and to prevent forming any link between it and yourself suggesting denial. The lack of pictures in your apartment implies you don't want Haley, Jack, or the team to see you as you are indicating shame and guilt. Your apartment is spotless to keep up the career man appearance, but also to prevent it from becoming your home, and to admit that, in a personal sense, you are alone. Shooting up in your living area publicises it so despite the façade, you want people to know of your problem. On some level you want actually want help," Rossi falls silent, and Aaron stares out of the window, holding himself tighter, he doesn't like people mentioning Jack or Haley.

They pull into Rossi's driveway at eleven, and sluggishly make their way to the house. The night has gotten colder but if Aaron wasn't so tired he would walk, bask in the peacefulness, and let the night make him forgot who he is for awhile. Instead he trudges up to Rossi's front door, and waits for Dave to catch up. He hadn't let Aaron carry his bag, Aaron tried to protest, but couldn't deny he didn't have the strength to carry the bag without collapsing from exhaustion.

He's been in the house before and found it perfectly pleasant. But now as he casts his eyes over the grand furnishings, and closed windows it takes on the form of a prison, which he doesn't have the key. They set him up in the spare room, and Rossi tells him goodnight with a glass of water, he isn't oblivious to the older man locking the window before he leaves.

Aaron lies in the dark, the ticking clock driving him a little more crazy with each second. Sleep is difficult and his shaking is getting worse. Eventually his body shudders into an uneasy slumber, but not before he sees Haley's bloody corpse lying on the floor.

* * *

**This is a new idea for a story, purely a 'what if' senario. I was thinking about how Hotch is always at the the centre of the team, and overall pretty dependable and stable. I wanted to see what would happen, and how it would effect the other characters, if this stability was taken away. I've never written a Hotch centred fic before, so any tips of characterisation would be help. Overall I hope you enjoy it, I apologise for any grammer and or spelling mistakes, please R&R.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds... other wise there would be WAAAY more Reid badass moments :P.**


	2. Chapter 2

"_Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquiste horror of their reality._" - Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

**Chapter 2**

He wakes just as the sun begins to rise. Sweat mops his brow, and he sips greedily from the water at the bedside. For a minute he forgets where he is, but then everything swings into focus. The overdose, the ambulance, Dave being his emergency contact, the coffee, they all circle his head like a carousel and make him feel sick.

He glances around the room, wondering whether he has the energy to leave the house before Rossi wakes up. In his half sleeping mind he pictures going back to his apartment, getting ready for work like normal. However, his growing headache makes this impossible, he doubts his ability to make a cup of coffee, let alone pass off to FBI security that he is perfectly fine.

He stands, steady's himself, and moves to the bathroom next door. It's porcelain and blue, with weak yellow beams shining through the glass. Looking in the mirror he's uncertain of who is staring back at him. The man who used to wear simple suits, glare down the most dangerous unsub, and lead a team of elite profilers is long gone. A scared, pale faced man looks back at him, defeat hanging in the air, and a tiredness that resides in his bones. Sick of the mirror he goes back to the guest room, escape is futile. He waits for David to wake up.

He must have dosed off as when he next leaves the room he is assaulted with the smell of roasting coffee beans, eggs frying, and bacon sizzling. It turns his stomach. Scratching his arm absentmindedly he walks into the kitchen, uncertain of when he had his last fix. Rossi is placing bacon and eggs onto two plates, "Want some breakfast?" he asks, Aaron can't remember the last time he had breakfast.

"I'm not hungry," he replies, and sits at the table. Rossi places a plate in front of him anyway.

"You look like you could do with a good meal," He continues as if Aaron hadn't spoken.

"I don't think I can stomach it," he says a little louder, but as he meets Rossi's gaze he sees just how much of a lost cause he is fighting. He nervously picks up the knife and fork placed next to the plate, while Rossi puts coffee next to him and sits opposite. It's not that the food doesn't look appetising, but the shaking is getting worse, dizziness is hitting, and this isn't what his body is craving right now. He eats what he can, and drinks the coffee which only marginally awakens his mind.

After breakfast they move to the living room, Aaron huddles on an armchair, fighting to keep the bacon and eggs down. A phone is thrown into his lap, he looks at it blankly. "I was going to suggest going into the Bureau yourself and ask Strauss for a leave of absence. I didn't think it would be possible for you to get this bad this quickly," Aaron cringes slightly at the anger, aware that any professional boundaries have long been decimated. He feels like a child being reprimanded for a wrong doing. "Phone Strauss and tell her you need a leave of absence, I'm going to head off and try and get a few days off to watch you," After a few minutes Hotch complies, not bothering to ask about the After.

"This is Director in Chief Erin Strauss of the FBI speaking, who is this?" he winces at the sound of her voice, a thrill of nerves courses through him.

"Strauss this is Hotchner, I need to request a leave of absence effective immediately," he sounds tired, and sickly.

"Agent Hotchner you are aware that you need to request a leave of absence through a memorandum, at least two weeks previous to the initiation of the absence?" Aaron's fits clench as he fights a particularly strong wave of nausea.

"Yes ma'am I am aware of that, and under other circumstances I would have followed protocol. However a rather urgent situation has arose which needs to be dealt with," there is a pause at the other end, and for one panic laden second, Aaron is certain his request will be refused.

"The most I can give you is four weeks Agent Hotchner, and that's after pulling strings," he knows the physical withdrawal will subside in a week at the most.

"That's fine ma'am, I appreciate it," he replies.

"Good, and Aaron, good luck," she hangs up. He stares at the phone for countless seconds, 'good luck', the words play in his head over and over with the mantra of _she knows, she knows, she knows she knows sheknowssheknowsssheknows_.

He just makes it to the bathroom, barely bothering to register Rossi's presence.

When the vomiting subsides he sits back against the wall and rubs his arms, he's shivering, and clammy, and if he moves his head the world spins a little faster. "Aaron I need to head to the Bureau, can you handle things by yourself for two hours?" it's laced with uncertainty, but Aaron nods, two hours is nothing, he's waited longer for fixes. "I'm going to lock the front and back doors," he states in that ever calm voice. Aaron is too out of it to notice the concern.

"I'll be okay Dave, just go," he doesn't want to be seen like this. Sixteen deep breathes, and one glass of water later Rossi leaves for the Bureau. Aaron sits, eyes darting around the room, at himself. Anxiety clenches at his stomach when he thinks of the teams reaction to his leave. It would be naïve of them not to know, they are profilers after all. David's words come back to him;

_"Strauss is on my back about you, the team know something is up."_

It occurs to him that Strauss could have forced him to come in, let the FBI see how bad he was. He'd be fired faster than he could register the looks on their faces. She, in fact, probably saved his career, but it doesn't stop the shame, or the guilt.

His head buzzes as if he has a cold, and everything is either toohot, or toocold. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin. He stretches out towards the glass of water, but before he can reach it another wave of nausea drags him back under. Gripping the toocold sides of the toilet he waits for the cycle to continue.

* * *

The ticking of the ignition of doing his head in, and he wonders if the Traffic Light God is just doing this to piss him off. He's angry, very angry, but also stressed. This momentary reprive where he can smell the new leather of the car seats, and feel the sun through the windshield. It relaxes him. Then the lights change and his brain swings into gear again. David is tired. This last year has worn out everyone just when they thought good times were here.

He doesn't know how he's going to tell them, the concerns of the team and the talk to him, and amongst themselves hasn't evaded him. He knows they know, just like Hotch does, but he's not sure whether to take the bureaucratic approach and claim exhaustion, or be upfront. He hasn't made up his mind by the time he parks his car in the parking lot.

Security is on hyper-vigilance today, a terror alert no doubt, and Rossi is glad he doesn't have to deal with that as well. Passing all the checks he makes his way to the elevator, across the bullpen, and to his office. He is the first one there. He goes to see Strauss.

"You want time off as well? May I remind you David you are part of an elite, and much needed profiling team?" Erin looks at him, her gaze unimpressed. She wasn't always this serious, but right now she is the last thing on his mind.

"I want a break Erin, is that so much to ask?" She removes her glasses, and it strikes him by how weary she looks.

"I'm not an idiot David, the most I can give you is two days, it's a new policy," he waits, knowing that's the best he's going to get. He leaves the office with a 'thanks Erin'.

Alone in his own office he can hear the rest of the team pile in. Strauss is nothing compared to how difficult they will be. He knows the drill, Morgan will become acting leader, just like before Foyet. Procedural, life goes on. Its telling them their boss is a drug addict which makes his stomach burn. Two days isn't long enough, and there is only one other person he knows both he and Aaron can trust.

If Aaron is like a surrogate son, then Emily is his friend. The one you care for, but keep your distance, the one who cares but knows how to keep her head. Despite it all this whole mess was something David could see coming, perhaps in the form of a whiskey bottle than some white powder, but that the man had to have a break down… In a way he's almost relieved. If Aaron gets through this it may finally help him.

Or it can destroy him.

And Rossi is reminded that these are still uncertain days.

A small knock on the door draws him out of his thoughts, its JJ. "Rossi, do you know where Hotch is? He asked me to send him the files from the William Hodges case…" David's expression draws her up short "Is everything okay?"

"I need you to gather the team in the conference room, it's about Hotch," he wasn't going to add it, but then he doesn't want her publicising his absence by knocking on his office door. She nods and leaves, and he wait's a few minutes before standing, and heading to the conference room.

He watches them file in and shut the door. They look tense, worried, the tension is thick and everyone seems to be chocking on the smell of coffee. He clears his throat, tempted to cower at his own words because this is suddenly happening. Its then he takes the bureaucratic approach. "You're all probably wondering where Aaron is. He's decided to take some personal time, and will resume work in a month. Until then it has been decided that Morgan, you will take over as acting chief, I wish I could have prepared you sooner, however this was sprung on us," he monitors their reactions. Morgan is taken aback at the responsibility landed on him, the others appear confused.

"Why didn't Hotch go to Strauss himself and explain his absence to us in person?" Reid asks. Rossi feels the burning stare of five of the most insightful people in America. He doesn't know if he can lie to them. Bureaucracy isn't working. Leading forward on the desk, and speaking low so the team gather close to hear it, he tries to explain.

"We all know Aaron has been having problems dealing with Jack and Haley's deaths. He just feels like he needs to get away from the BAU for awhile," he straightens out and looks at them all, they all burn for more information, and know they won't get any. Before another onslaught Rossi prepares to leave, then he remembers Emily. "Emily, I need to speak to you in my office please," he says as an afterthought at the door. He isn't oblivious to the looks the others exchange, but it's not something he particularly cares about either.

They walk up the bullpen in an easy stride. Rossi's face is impassive, as he betrays nothing about the situation that must be discussed. The office looks comfortable, easeful, but tension lies under the surface. "What's this really about Rossi?" her worried face doesn't fit with the determined spark in her voice. For a moment the office is silent, and Rossi doesn't want to admit that Aaron has fallen further than any of them anticipated. The man can put on one hell of a show.

"Aaron is using narcotics, and pretty frequently if this morning was anything to go by. I got a phone call last night from the hospital saying that he had been found in his flat by a neighbour, and that he had overdosed. It took a lot of string pulling not to get the police involved, and to get the hospital to mark it as a collapse from exhaustion," he pauses for a minute before continuing "I asked Strauss for time off, but I only managed to secure the next two days. I figure considering your past with Aaron, if you could help him on the last few days, just to make sure he doesn't do something stupid," he finds it hard to believe he's talking about Aaron. The only sound for the next five minutes is a fly buzzing around the office lamp.

"I… No you can't be serious, he wouldn't… narcotics? Are you sure?" he's never seen her so speechless before. It unnerves him.

"I'm certain, Prentiss. Now can I count on you?" he hopes the use of her last name will knock some sense into her. She twitches a little at the use of her surname.

"Of course Rossi, I'll call in sick in a few days, just to avoid suspicion. But… why narcotics? Why not alcohol? I don't understand…" he wishes he could give her answers.

"You would need to ask him that, I am as much in the dark as you are. But thank you Emily for doing this," she smiles despite the circumstances.

"No problem Sir, I would do the same for anyone on this team," Rossi offers her a smile, and she takes that as a cue to leave.

He sits alone in the office for another half hour, despite knowing he needs to get back. He spends some of the thirty minutes looking out over the bullpen, and despite being more anxious the team do their work, occasionally glancing up to Aaron's empty office.

The team has lost their leader yet they carry on, it's interesting to watch.

However, most of his thoughts are on Aaron. They'd known something was wrong, in the last year he had been devoid of all emotion, it was unnatural to carry on so well, not a chink in mask was to be seen. Yet Rossi wasn't prepared to see him so vulnerable, defenceless, and filled with such shame and guilt. The defeated, miserable man in the diner was a completely different person from the powerful, stoic man in suits. The raw emotion disturbed him, like he knows it will disturb Prentiss. He glances at the clock, it's half ten and he better leave. He grabs his coat, a few files, and shuts up his office.

He thinks of Aaron, freezing himself in time while everyone else deals with the world. As he reaches the doors of the bullpen he turns back one last time. Reid is getting coffee, JJ is on the phone, Prentiss is writing reports, and Garcia and Morgan are moving Morgan's things back to his old office. In a week's time they'll go on another case, see more horrors, compartmentalise, and continue. Its a never ending cycle of life, really.

* * *

**I don't know if people are interested or not, but I haven't got any flames yet so I'll keep writing :). Thanks to those who put this on story alert, it made me happy :D. I apologise about the title change, but it should make more sense later on. I apologise for any grammer and or spelling mistakes.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds.**


	3. Chapter 3

"_You have to come to a stage where you almost have to work on yourself. You know, on finding some traquility with which to respond to these things, because I realise that the biggest risk that many of us run is begining to get inured to the horrors._" - Arundhati Roy

* * *

**Chapter 3**

His head is killing him, and the silence of the bathroom is making him feel sick again. He wonders when Dave will get back, he doesn't mind being alone though, it makes him think that they don't know. He wonders how the team will react. These thoughts are fleeting, he is waiting.

It takes sixty two breathes for him to notice the air change. Ninety seven drips of the tap until the thin layer of red blood lines the floor. It takes seventeen hours without a fix for him to hear Jack say "Hi daddy."

This is what the end of the world feels like.

Aaron turns, his son is at the bathroom doorway, blood from the stab wounds drip onto the floor, it almost makes him want to be sick again. Jack Hotchner walks into the room in his Spider Man pjamas, his bare feet '_patterpatterpat_' on the ceramic tiles. "Are you not well daddy?" Aaron winces.

"No, I'm not."

"Is that why you couldn't save us from the bad man?" Aaron's fists clench as Jack just stares at him, there's no emotion in his eyes.

"No, it wasn't that, Jack… I couldn't," he tries to sit up straighter, but another wave of nausea makes it impossible.

"But you always catch the bad guys daddy, why couldn't you catch him?"

"I'm sorry Jack, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he can't look at him anymore, the blank eyes, the accusing words. He should be at work right now, he should be using. Not a lot, just enough to tide him over.

Tide him over. He'd been repeating that to himself for months. Where had it gotten him? Making excuses to his dead son in his friend's bathroom?

Reality tastes a little more bitter.

_Some coping Aaron_, he thinks. The next wave of vomiting is sudden. When it subsides Jack and the blood are gone. They were never really there, except the guilt. The guilt makes his insides burn and his head scream. The guilt is something he is going to have to live with. Guilt is forever no matter if people say otherwise.

He isn't aware Rossi is back until he sits on the edge of the bath. "How are you feeling?" he asks, Aaron shakes and stays silent for a few minutes.

"Ill," he lifts his head to look at Rossi "How did it go at the Bureau?"

"I have two days off, it's the most I could get. After that Emily is going to come over and help while I'm at work," Aaron's insides turn to ice.

"Emily knows?" he asks.

"Of course Emily knows Aaron! Did you really think you could keep this solely between you and me. The whole team knows something is up!" The outburst surprises Aaron although he figures Dave is still mad.

"What did she say about it?"

"She thought you were an alcoholic, and she wanted an explanation, I know I wouldn't mind one…" the invitation is obvious. Aaron takes a few sips of water, hoping Rossi might say something else. Three sips later he realises the ball is back in his court.

He tries to find words to explain, explain why narcotics, why now, why half of him doesn't care as to whether he is fired. But no words come, no explanation that won't bring someone as close to him as Haley had been. He can't let than happen. He needs to be solitary, alone. He's better this way, so much better, he's… lost. The word draws him up short. Lost, alone, lonely, and tired. Tired of things being this way. After ten minutes he speaks. Maybe he can find his way out of nightmareland yet.

"I couldn't save them… they needed me and I couldn't stop Foyet in time… all because I couldn't make a stupid deal." In the recesses of his mind his conscious is screaming at himself to shut up, but in the start of a feverish withdrawal Aaron forgets himself. "In my time off I'd sit and think, think about the job, what it had done. I couldn't stop seeing their faces, over and over and over. They don't accuse, they don't shout, they just stare with these dead eyes to remind me they're gone," he looks at David "I don't think I can handle that."

Rossi's face is impassive, but his eyes are sympathetic. "It wasn't your fault Aaron," he says wearily, knowing he won't get through to the man. He's never seen Aaron so dejected, so blatantly broken, and he has no idea what to say to the him. Instead he keeps quiet, and pretends that Aaron isn't crying silently. He hasn't been up long, but he feels like he's been awake forever.

The rest of the day is spent between the living room and the bathroom. Rossi reads, writes, occasionally watches TV, and tries to surreptitiously monitor Aaron. Throughout the day his shaking gets worse, the vomiting is more frequent, but he remains as quiet as possible. Rossi puts him to bed at nine, knowing it's unlikely Aaron will get any sleep at all. He stands at the door and watches the man toss and turn in his sheets. There's something suddenly surreal about it, and David has to pinch himself to make sure he isn't stuck in some hideous nightmare.

It's the screaming that wakes him. Three in the morning in all its glory. It comes from the guest room, frantic _'No's'_ and _'Stay with me'_ are frequent. The strangled crying isn't something Rossi wants to remember anytime soon. He hurries into the room, Aaron is tangled in the sheets and thrashing, although knowing he has to stop the man, he can't help but be wary. He approaches him cautiously but quickly, unwanting to get caught in any cross fire. "Aaron, Aaron wake up!" he eventually reaches Aaron's shoulder and shakes the disturbed man, his eyes shoot open.

"Where's Jack?" the unrestrained terror forces David to take a step back.

"Aaron, Jack isn't here right now, it was just a dream," Aaron's breathing slows, and he looks at David. The two men are silent for a moment, David wants to know what the dream was about, although he has a pretty good guess. "Do you want to talk about?" his voice rings out in the silence of the room, David frowns at the intrusiveness. Aaron shakes his head, there's only so many revelations he can stomach for one day. Another silence later he lies back down, although both men know he won't sleep.

Rossi makes to leave, and watches momentarily Aaron's huddled, shaking form. It is unnerving to see the man so open with his emotions, it doesn't feel right. He is so composed, so strong, a pillar of constant in the team. Rossi goes back to his own room.

He doesn't think that SSA Aaron Hotchner will be back anytime soon.

* * *

It's a shock that creeps up on you, and drains you before you know its there. By the end of the day she's more exhausted than she should be. The others have been discussing in whispering (_so-secret-they-don't-exist)_ moments what they think is wrong with Hotch, and they haven't, although she knows they want to, ask about her private (_so-secret-they-don't-exist)_ discussions with Rossi.

She leaves the office at the usual time, after all it's a normal day. She drives to her apartment, squinting when the setting sun gets in her eyes. Her apartment is emptier than she remembers, and bigger too. The hall from the bedroom to the living room stretches out like the Ganges.

She doesn't remembering feeling so small in a long time.

Sitting on her couch she thinks back over the day for the a hundredth time. So Aaron is a… she can't think it in her head, let alone say it. It doesn't make sense. They had known something was wrong, something was a little off. But this is Hotch, he deals with things in his own way, and after losing your ex-wife and son in one go… it is bound to take its toll. It's the reality that scares her really. The confidence, the certainty Hotch exudes on every case, on every decision, the careful thought put into every action, the constant permanence of the man. He'd been like that as long as she can remember. And this reality, this complete loss of control turns her cold, and fearful.

But it's more than that, and she knows it. It's that this was expected, this breakdown, this loss of control. They should have seen it from a mile away. The careful deliberateness of making sure everything is in it's place. The late office hours, the fact that he used to observe in the background as they chatted in the office, now he's just quiet. And she realises it's the little things, the unnoticeable _we-aren't-really-there little things_. She's not ready to see Hotch, she doesn't think if she had a hundred years she would be ready. For a woman that has always prided herself on her ability to face anything, this terrifies her.

As she lies in bed at night, spiders spin webs on the ceiling, a film reel showing every moment that something was off. The _we-aren't-really-there little things_ become the _we've-always-been-hear Big Things._

Every. Little. Indicator.

They play over and over and over and over until she wants to scream. She turns on her side, she can see the Cheshire Cat from the window, 'We're all mad here', he grins. She shuts her eyes, wanting everything to stop.

* * *

**Wow I'm amazed at the interest this story has got, seriously I never get this many hits or reviews, so thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favourited, its been a major surprise :), and I would have replied individually if I wasn't really busy, hopefully that can change :). I hope you all like this chapter, my beta said the withdrawl seems to be starting quite quickly, I realise that she's right and I apologise for this, but I didn't want the story to drag. I apologise for any grammer and spelling mistakes, it's weird reading it back over as in my head I'm already a few chapters ahead of this and I get confused :P.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds, at all, in the slightest, I'm gonna go cry now :P.**


	4. Chapter 4

"_It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadquete to the present than it is to have it elude you, and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory._" - F. Scott Fitzgerald

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_She laughs, the sound echoes across the stretch of grass. It's a nice laugh, pleasant. And he can't remember feeling this relaxed. "Well it's true," he says, looking up at her, "You do look like the Bride of Frankenstein," she lies down next to him._

"_And the Suit of the Year award goes to…" he smiles._

"_It's just professional," she shakes her head._

"_You're always serious," she moans. He stops smiling, and for a second she thinks she's offended him. Without warning he tickles her. Her laughter is cute and her pleas are endearing. The sun hits his face in a nottoohot nottoocold manner. He wants the day to last forever. He wants her, the feel of her lips, the closeness of her embrace._

* * *

"Emily," he mutters.

"Are you okay, Aaron?" her voice isn't far off, although he's not too sure where he is right now. His head aches, his bones feel like they're breaking, he's feverish, and uncomfortable in his own skin. He wants to ask her if she remembers that day. But the fever burns, and the pain clouds his head like an invisible barrier between them.

"I'm alive," he sees her nod, smile slightly, and move away again, walk away from him.

Sometimes he doesn't think the day was ever real.

He wants to beg, scream, and shout for someone to give him something. Anything to make his bones stop breaking, his head from splitting, and his stomach settle. For the most part though he remains quiet, occasionally he moans at something, but for the most part he keeps his silence, he doesn't want to disgrace himself further.

He's lost count of the hours, they come, happen, then pass. Occasionally Jack and Haley visit, he tries to ignore them. A fly is buzzing overhead by the lamp. The buzzing is causing his skull to smash into tiny pieces, the fragments stab at his brain. He breathes one shuddering breath. Existing hurts. His head is blocked, and his stomach quivers. He's going to be sick again and the fly _keeps on buzzing_.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up things are… _different_. He's in Rossi's living room, it's mid-day, and Prentiss is sitting comfortably in on of the armchairs watching crappy daytime TV. The fly is gone. His stomach feels dormant, his head aches, but it's an ache he recognises: he's dehydrated. It's his mind that's disturbingly clear.

He keeps movement minimal, hoping that Prentiss won't notice. Fear bubbles up inside him, he has no idea how to explain this, any of it. He looks at her, she seems engrossed in the TV programme, he's surprised when she turns her head to him. "You're awake!" pause, then "How are you feeling?" The question makes the situation seem as though he's recovering from an illness.

"I'm feeling better," short, simple answers, that's what he'd normally do, right? _Even though this is the furthest thing from normal. _He adds mentally.

"Do you want a glass of water?" she asks, the stilted awkwardness of the conversation makes him desperate for it to end. He nods.

While she's gone he looks around the living room, apart from the messy sheets and duvets laid on the couch, it is spotless, but homey. She returns too soon with water in hand, he sips from it, his stomach accepts it, and it ties into knots. They've reached the '_after_', the '_whathappensafter_' and he doesn't want this, he doesn't want to talk about it, no one talks about the _whathappensafter_. He finishes the water, and sees her confused gaze.

It's question time.

Despite looking better, somehow he looks worse, but she can't explain it really. Questions hang in the air like kites caught in trees, she wants to take them down and ask them before the wind blows them away again. Asking is hard, the words don't want to be spoken, and they watch each other while she attempts to form them. "Why?" in the end is all that comes out. It's like a twisted parody of that clichéd living room scene where there's some sort of heart to heart, or the troubled second protagonist leaves in anger. In pjama bottoms and a scabby t-shirt she doesn't think he's going somewhere anytime soon.

"Why not?" the response draws her up short. There's a challenging nature she knew she should have expected.

"What do you mean, why not? This isn't funny Aaron, it's serious, you could have died," the man's face pales from off white, to white.

"You are aware of Monday?" he asks, trying to be as pragmatic as possible.

"Yes Hotch, I am aware of Monday," she wants to add a 'what were you thinking?', but she holds her tongue. He stays silent, and for a few minutes she thinks he isn't going to speak to her, then.

"It worked, it stopped them from visiting me," he looks at her, as if daring her to dispute it. It's a determined fierceness, a challenge in his gaze that she hasn't seen since they were years younger. But the man before her is different, changed, permanently altered from the boy on the grass whose days consisted of Bureaucracy, and nights of three am coffee talks. She wants to pause the world and write a new script because she doesn't like the scene she's seeing.

"Did it not occur to you that they shouldn't have been visiting you in the first place?" and she's scared, actually scared. Has he completely lost it? _Surely _they would have noticed that. His face is stoic.

"Yes, and I know they aren't real, but it doesn't stop them from visiting," he says in a quiet, firm voice.

"When, when you use narcotics do they not show up?" she asks, disturbed at how difficult these questions are to ask. He looks at her, his face betraying no emotion.

"No," he says reluctantly "But I stop caring, I can't care, and that makes it better," he says slowly. She watches him for a few minutes, before looking at the clock. Two pm. Another four or so hours of awkward small talk before Rossi gets back. She tries to align this man with the rational, no nonsense, Aaron Hotchner that she's known for most of her life. She can't. She doesn't even attempt to try and re-unit him with his teenage self.

From his posture and lack of emotion she thinks he's angry, ashamed, but angry. She isn't sure at what though, and this makes her nervous. She tries to deal with being at a complete loss of what to say, of what to do. They sit in silence. The TV blares on.

They still haven't spoken again by the time Rossi comes back at six, since then Aaron has showered and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. The casualness makes him uncomfortable. In the silence Aaron planned, planned as to how he would get out of this, the excuses he would use. That he was fine to deal with it on his own now. That he would go to a self help group. He knows deep down they won't buy it. He knows that he has to try.

They make him eat dinner with them. Rossi updates them on things in the Bureau. Morgan has been handling things well, the team are suspicious of Rossi's absence and now Emily's. And Reid managed to ruin the coffee machine by tripping over a chair leg and spilling coffee on it. If the situation was different, Aaron might have laughed.

After dinner they sit back in the living room, only this time Aaron knows discussion is inevitable. The profiler in him sees Prentiss and Rossi's sitting together as an alliance, the prosecutor senses a brilliant defence. He can't help but have his arms across his chest, staring stoically at them, "Emily and I have been talking, we are aware that you don't have enough leave for a standard rehab visit, not only that, but it would kill your career," he looks away uncomfortably "We think you should see a therapist, go to some form of support group, and that it would be best for you to stay either here, or at Prentiss's for awhile," Aaron frowns.

"I'd rather stay at my apartment, and whether I go to a psychiatrist or support group is none of your business," he struggles not to spit the words out. He doesn't want to admit it's serious, he doesn't want the only thing that makes him feel safe to fall down around him. He looks from Rossi to Prentiss, and watches as the parental concerned stance changes to anger and frustration.

"Okay so it isn't our business if you do any of that. What is our business, however, is if you screw up on the job and get one of us killed!" Prentiss says sternly "How easy would it be to have one mistaken lapse in judgement, you've done it before at your best, let alone now."

He's aware of all the tactics they're using. The guilt trips, bringing his shattered ego lower to make him admit defeat. The knowing doesn't make it any less affective, but it doesn't mean he'll give in just as easy. "That hasn't happened so far," he counters poorly.

"It doesn't mean to say that it never would though," Prentiss argues back, and Aaron dimly remembers arguments of a less serious nature that used to take place between them.

"Aaron every member of your team has come to me with concerns. They all know something is wrong, and some of them are worried not just for you but for themselves. Is it really fair to put them in that position? Not to mention Erin has been giving me hassle for months. She may not be a profiler, but if she thinks you'll jeopardise her promotion chances she will not hesitant to fire you," this strikes a cord with Aaron, a small part, the part of him that's still certain he can do his job.

"I want everyone to just leave me alone," he says quietly.

"So you can deal with things by yourself. Yes we all know you like to deal with things by yourself Aaron, but have you considered that fact that you aren't dealing with this in the slightest. If we leave you by yourself how do we know you won't just go back to using?" he doesn't respond to Rossi's argument, he's getting another headache, he can't _think._ He decides to appease them.

"Fine I'll go to a therapist, and I'll stay with Emily for a week, if it's alright with her" he looks at them, waiting for them to tell him that isn't good enough. They don't.

"It's a start," Rossi says, and he stands "Do you want to leave tonight, or will tomorrow suffice?" he asks. Aaron is tired, but he wants nothing more than to leave Rossi's house.

"Tonight if it's alright with Emily," Emily and Aaron stand.

"I'll help you get your things," Emily offers, Aaron doesn't argue back.

The night air is colder than Aaron remembers, and he and Emily walk quickly to her car. At least, he thinks, he can carry his own bag. The atmosphere is awkward in the car to say the least. His profiling skills make him painfully aware of his display of discomfort. "You weren't always this private," she comments as if she were talking about the weather.

"You weren't always this tame," he replies "People change."

"They certainly do," there's an odd tremor in her voice that Aaron hadn't noticed before. It confuses him, and he goes back to watching the streets drift by.

"Why narcotics?" she asks, as they turn off from the highway, some thirty minutes into the journey. "Why not alcohol? Why anything for that matter?" and there's something in her voice, an inquisitiveness, an almost adolescent demand he can't ignore. Although he isn't sure if he has an answer.

"They were easy, easier to hide, easier to get. It made things easier to deal with," he lies. The real answers hide in his brain, answers he doesn't want to say, issues he doesn't want to confront. Lies are comforting. And she sees right through it.

Nothing is easy.

"Someday," she says as she parks the car and switches off the ignition "You'll learn you can't lie to me," there's a softness in her voice. It stirs a memory he forgot he has. For a moment a darkened closet, a summer heat, and the smell of fresh linen surround him.

* * *

"_Do you like me, like, _like_ like me?" she asks, her body pressing against his, his body being pushed into a firm stack of fresh sheets. In the dark all he can see is her eyes smiling, and her mouth serious._

"_I like you as a friend," he says with toofast breathing, and toofast a response. The cupboard is boiling. She smiles a pretty smile._

"_Someday, you'll learn you can't lie to me," she whispers, then her hands cup his face, and her lips press softly against his. _

* * *

The car door opens, and cold air bursts in. The memory of that day all but lost. As he walks up to her apartment, the only way he's sure it happened is the memory of her lips on his.

* * *

**I am so sorry for the late update of this, truth is I like to be two chapters ahead before I post one up, and my exams were waaaay more stressful than I thought, but they're over and I'm FREE! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted or favourited, I really appreciate it and I'm glad you enjoy it. If there's anyone left reading this then I hope you enjoy this chapter and I apologise for grammer, spelling mistakes, and how overdue it is. **

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds.**


	5. Chapter 5

_"A leader does not deserve the name unless he is willing occasionally to stand alone. _Henry A. Kissinger_  
_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

He sits at his desk, pretending to do work, while trying to fine-tune is ears to pick up Garcia and JJ's conversation. He knows something is wrong with Hotch, and it isn't the profiler in him that's certain. "I just think there's more to it than that, did Rossi say anything?" Garcia's usually perky voice asks an equally serious JJ.

"No, all he told me was he had to speak to us about him, nothing to do with… well," she doesn't need to clarify, the sounds of Haley Hotchner being shot is imprinted on all their memories, eidetic or otherwise.

"Do you think he's…" Garcia trails off, it's ambiguous enough for most people not in the know to read it wrong.

"There isn't much evidence for it, but I can't think of it being any other reason," Reid grips his pen tighter, and a confirmed dawning comes over him. He wants to hear more, but interference in the form of Morgan's voice drowns out the JJ/Garcia transmission.

"Hey Pretty Boy, do you have the files on the Paul Davies case?" he asks, Reid frowns.

"Morgan, that was months ago, why do you need it now?"

"I'm doing a lecture in New York in two weeks, and there's very few documentations on Renfield's Syndrome, it's good documented proof on different types of obsessional crime," Reid doesn't want to get into a discussion.

"No, it'll probably be in storage," he says hurriedly, noting that Garcia and JJ are still chatting by the kettle/replacement coffee machine. Morgan looks at Reid.

"You alright? That would usually send you into a tangent on, well anything to do with obsessional crimes, or vampires, and don't tell me your busy, you've been staring at that page for the past ten minutes," Reid puts his pen down, and sits back.

"I've been thinking about Hotch, and I don't think we're getting the full story."

"It's obvious we're not getting told the full story, but if you have a theory keep it to yourself. The last thing we need is for anything to be confirmed, if he does talk, it'll be in his own time," Reid knows Morgan is right and he sighs.

"I guess, this place is swarming with secrets," Morgan gives a half ironic smile.

"Everyone has secrets, no matter how well others can read them," with that he leaves. Reid looks back at his file, reasoning he is sufficiently distracted he puts his pen down and goes for lunch.

Lunch is sitting in the sun, eating sandwiches. His thoughts go back to Hotch, and JJ and Garcia's conversation. There was nothing to indicate alcoholism, but there was nothing to suggest things were okay. The only thing that makes him sure he's right is Hotch's behaviour, that behaviour he wouldn't notice if he hadn't had to watch out for it himself.

* * *

_He was bored for once. He'd been filling in a performance evaluation sheet for the past half hour. It was a tick box format, that asked for 'long detailed sentences', his two year old self could have done this. Allowing himself a moment's reprieve from the mind numbing task, he looked around the bullpen. Emily was talking on the phone, Morgan was visiting Garcia, and JJ and Rossi were reading over cases in their offices. Hotch was by the coffee machine, making a fresh pot._

_Reid at first couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't that his stance was unusual, it just doesn't seem… right. Over the last few months Hotch had been more withdrawn, more professional, cynical and detached. This poise undermined all of it, and Reid got the feeling that is wasn't a natural moment of relaxation._

_The thought that Hotch might be drinking had already been discussed by, well, all of them. Yet there were no signs to suggest it. No blood shot eyes in the morning, no scent of alcohol on him, not even a hint of alcohol bottles in his office. They'd checked. Once. It was a relaxed pose Spencer thought he knew, but couldn't be certain. He dismissed it and went back to his work. The frustration at knowing there was something he was missing was getting to him._

* * *

Now its obvious, more than obvious, and he chastises himself for being so stupid. The thought of Hotch using narcotics doesn't seem as absurd in Spencer's head as he thinks it should. He puts it down to being devoted to science, facts, evidence, and there was more evidence for narcotics than alcohol. This realisation, however, brings him to an anti-climax, it's not like there is anything he can do to stop it, in fact he has a fairly good idea that if he even approached Hotch on the subject he would be killed.

Finishing his sandwiches he sits in the sun a bit longer. The _'why's'_ stab about his head like a swarm of angry bees. Why _narcotics_? Why _Hotch_? Why did he take them _voluntarily_? It's the last one that sparks anger for Reid, despite knowing it shouldn't. He finds it hard to imagine the reality of Hotch using narcotics, the unconscious pedestal in his mind, that the man was infallible to such an activity was intact until now. Now Reid wonders why he had it in the first place.

There's more to it though, Reid summaries as he walks back to the FBI. Hotch is a father figure, someone who guides, someone there. But like his Gideon and his father before him he's gone with no more explanation than one work harassed agent and a whirlwind of rumours. It's at this point Reid registers the pain in his chest, the hurt that once again he's been left alone.

He walks back into the building, shivering at the _toocold_ air the fans give off. He returns to the BAU, to the team. He can't help but feel angry and confused. Looking at the others he sees he isn't alone. There's no more Garcia/JJ radio broadcasts in the afternoon, and the _toocold_ soon turns into the _toohot_. For once he can't wait for his shift to be over, he just wants to sit, and think about something that isn't killers.

Burnt coffee and stewed silent questions fill up the BAU like a pot, they boil, and burn slowly.

* * *

He wants to go somewhere after work, anywhere that isn't his apartment to think. His eyes itch a little with tiredness, and his mind is strained with impossible/possible thoughts. He settles for a quiet cafe off the main roads. He orders a fruit smoothie - berry - it's cool. Refreshing. He doesn't come here often, the atmosphere is quiet, relaxed, and roasting coffee beans and fruit fill the air.

He used to come here a lot, after Georgia, during the dilauded when memories take up a sour beer tint, and _angerpainconfusion_ swirl around his mind all at once like some disjointed soup. The why's are back again, and his thoughts are sour, but for once they're focused on someone else.

He's private, they all are, but there's something about Hotch's suffering that seemed inevitable, yet avoidable, all along. He could have spoke to someone, one of them, or someone else surely. Grief counselling, hobbies, anything that wouldn't have resulted in narcotics. It's hypocrytical because Reid himself took them, yet that wasn't voluntary, and the anger doesn't want to leave. At the same time it was inevitable that the man would breakdown, everyone subconciously saw it coming like a train crash, inevitable yet distant. Memory tells Reid that perhaps the man wasn't just chasing away memories of Haley and Jack when he used. Regardless to whatever else that haunted him, now it had blown up in their faces. But it was a small impact, a bureacractic approach. A hushed up _so-secret-it-doesn't-even-exist _Big Thing.

Sometimes it angers him that their jobs, their positions, overlook that they're fallible. Sometimes it doesn't.

If there's one thing Reid knows, it's hard to talk to people you don't know, but most times harder to talk to the ones you do know. So if they couldn't have helped him, or steered him from the nadir, were they just meant to watch? Were they meant to be Okay with watching him kill himself? He's confused, he's angry, but mostly he's tired. Right now Hotch seems far away, a distant speck he wants to talk to and run from all at once. He pays for the smoothie and leaves.

Walking back to his apartment he thinks. The whole team is in a stand still, waiting for their leader, he knows Morgan well enough to know, though pleased with a promotion, he doesn't want Hotch's job. They're effient, effective, and work quickly. They're doing their jobs. It's only occasionally the mask slips and Morgan stalls, JJ looks confused, Garcia makes a blunder, or his mind goes blank. He laughs slightly as he enters his apartment, though it's not funny.

At the end of it they're just chaos trapped in a cocoon of bureaucracy.

* * *

**I must admit I'm not a big fan of this chapter length wise and just by what I've written, yet I wanted something that explained the attitudes of the team. I chose Reid as he's the character I'm most comfortable writing, and because he used to use narcotics as well. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, alerted, or favourited, and I hope you like this chapter. Feedback would be really appreciated as I want to make sure the attitudes of the team are good, or if I really need to improve it. I apologise for any grammar and/or spelling mistakes.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

_"Every man casts a shadow; not his body only but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun, short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?"_ - Henry David Thoreau.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

He sleeps soundly, and when he wakes up disorientation clouds his features. He hasn't slept soundly since the Incident, as it is being known in his mind, and sometimes even with the narcotics he wakes up once, or twice, screaming. Sitting up he takes a minute to register he's in Emily's flat, in her guest room. The flat has more formal decoration than he thought she would like. People change.

The droplets on the window tell him it rained last night. Full pelting crying rain. He moves to the window to look at the streets. An old woman walks across a quiet street. An ally cat's hackles rise when it steps in a puddle. A yellow ball lies forlornly behind a bin. The world runs like a watercolour painting.

The four strides from the bed to the window tell him his muscles are seized and sore. He rubs his eyes, he feels weaker than normal. He doesn't bother with a shower, instead throws on some clean clothes from his go bag, and sits on the guest bed. He thinks it's then he registers the anger.

He feels like a battered trunk pushed from owner to owner, none of them wanting to deal with it's contents, all of them just wanting to unpack it, and repack it, and hush it back up in a corner again. He doesn't want to be pushed around like a problem, but he doesn't know what he wants. A raw hurt resides in his chest that he can't deal with, that syringes and powders can deal with _should-be_ dealing with. _Should-be_ the phrase repeats over and over.

A lot of things _should-be_: Haley and Jack _should-be_ alive, he _should-be_ on a case, he _should-be_ in a suburban house right now, and Haley _should-be_ there, and _should-be_ cooking breakfast, or perhaps she's sleeping in and he _should-be_-

He lies back on the bed in an attempt to relax his muscles. He doesn't really know why he started, and he doesn't really know when he got to the point of being unable to stop. But right now his hands are itching for a fix, and his head is telling him it's the only way, and he's almost certain he can't refuse. He's aware that, somewhere along the line, his life veered spectacularly off course. He just isn't sure where that point was.

He hears the door creak open, if he turns his head slightly to the left he will see Emily's head peek from round the door. He doesn't though. He'd rather watch for monkeys hanging from the ceiling, just in case it's possible. He's still waiting to 'wake up' on his couch, this only being an extended passed out horror fantasy from the narcotics. It hasn't happened yet. "Are you awake Hotch?" her voice is like china pottery, and any minute it's going to break.

"Not really," and he turns his face to the gruelling reality.

"Do you want breakfast?" she asks.

"I want valium," he's never taken valium. Yet. She leaves without saying anything else.

He doesn't know what's causing this desire to act out, this anger, this need to break from who he is. But it'll fill the loss, and cure the frustration, and he thinks he likes that idea. He thinks he more than likes it.

Breakfast at Emily's isn't like walking into a five star restaurant, but he finds an appreciation for burnt coffee, and toast. It tastes like normality. If he wasn't sick of everything he's appreciated it more than a little.

He isn't sure as to what's on the agenda for today, Emily's eyes betray nothing over the table. He eats his toast quietly, and drinks his coffee, the silence of the dinner table reminds him of his childhood. When breakfast is done Emily moves quickly to clear the plates, ignoring Aaron's offer to help. Leaning slightly on the sink, shoulders hunched, head down, Aaron sees a woman completely out of her depth. It's unusual to see the woman so lost. It's empowering in a sick way.

She moves to the kitchen door, "We need to talk Aaron, and in order to do that we need to, for the time being, ignore the boss/subordinate position," she's trying to be professional, serious, and Aaron can see the whole thing is a sham, but he doesn't mind no longer being referred to as Hotch. It was getting tiresome.

"Alright," his voice betrays no emotion, and he follows her into the living room. They sit on the couch, and she's back to regarding him with an impartial expression. "What do we need to talk about Emily?" she looks at him incredulously.

"If you could, just for one minute, act like you wanted our help then we would be very grateful Aaron. I get it, you don't care, you don't want this help, and you don't want people telling you what to do, so what do you want to do then?" the outburst is unexpected, and this unsettles him, he should have seen it coming. Although Emily had always been one for surprises.

"I… I," trying to say he will be fine is harder than he thought. For the first time in a long time the profiler finds himself lost for a course of action. He wants to tell her that no he doesn't need therapy, no he doesn't need to talk about it, yes he would like to go back to his own apartment. But the words fail him, and he just stares at her, humiliatingly displaying his loss of ideas.

"You're not the only person whose ever lost someone Aaron, and your definitely not the only person who has no idea what to do. Doesn't it get lonely, keeping everything to yourself?" It's the way she glances at him, half curious, half smiling like she already knows the answer. They way she swings her legs slightly as she perches on the edge of the sofa. For the time being they aren't boss and subordinate, they're two children on the point of adulthood, with no concrete walls and iron gate defences weighing them down.

"It's fun, keeping everything to yourself, that way no one can hurt anyone," he looks at her, his eyes widen, because they've had this conversation before, some seventeen years ago in bed sheets and pillows. He looks away to remind himself of the present, that this time she's just trying to get into his head. This upsets him more than he thinks it ought. But this is GrownUpland, and now they need to deal with the Big Things, and the adult problems, rather than the _littlethings_. He looks back at her, her gaze is uncertain, and he's unnerved at how unsure he is. It's time to deal with the Big Things in GrownUpland.

He opens his mouth, an attempt to open up, it's now or never really, and he wonders what re-learning to trust will feel like.

For a second he sees himself younger, lying with her in a world make of blankets and pillows.

Then he pauses.

Because he isn't, and they aren't.

* * *

Her heart is in her throat, she waits, and waits. For a second she thinks she's lost him. That he will stand, shout, and attempt to leave. It's not like she can stop him. She likes to think that the fact he stayed means something.

His mouth is half open, like he's going to say something but he isn't sure what. At this point she'll welcome almost anything. They're just at the start of the storm really, she doesn't know if she's going to be able to make it through. "It keeps everything from being real," he says quietly, not toofast or too s-l-o-w. She holds her breath, as if realising it will break this glass moment. "It stops them from being dead, it stops me from remembering… It makes things better. For a few hours I'm relaxed, careless, and it feels nice, I can be someone else," his pause is so long she thinks for a second he's finished. Then, "It's nice pretending to be someone else, there's isn't the constraints, or restrictions of being me," he finishes quietly.

The vulnerability is something she hasn't seen in years. Too many years than she'd like to remember. And to see it on him now scares her. "But it's not like this changes anything in the long term, we can't avoid change," she says softly. The look on his face kills her.

"I don't want to care about that anymore, to care about the future, to my position I just… I want a moment's peace," he says at last "And narcotics give me that," he sounds like a man reaching an epiphany. Emily doesn't like the tone in his to voice. She knows she can't talk him out of it, and she wonders why she ever though she could. She's staring at a man worn down tired, and she's not entirely sure how to wake him up. She doesn't know if she can.

In the end she doesn't try.

"Do you remember when we were younger? And you always wore those suits?" she asks, he looks at her, he remembers. "And the one day I convinced you not to wear them, your boss showed up?" it's a weak story but it's all she's got. It invokes a small smile.

"Brodowski never let me live that down," he says, and he seems happier, and she thinks perhaps he's opening up.

"Oh yeah! You know I almost forgot about him, what's he doing now?" she asks, enjoying the fragile conversation. She realises this is probably the closest normal conversation he's had in while. Aaron's smile fades.

"He's dead, died ten years ago, kill by Sam Burgess," Emily remembers the 'Vampire of Seattle'. Just like that Aaron's demeanour becomes hunched and private. She feels like she's failed to get through to him.

Sometimes she isn't sure if she ever really succeeded anyway.

They spend most of the day in silence, the boundaries of professional/unprofessional are around them like spider webs woven from iron. It occurs to her that she'll never get anywhere with this approach, but the man is so defensive she isn't even sure if it's worth a shot.

* * *

Very few things catch Emily Prentiss off guard. Her years of profiling having left her so vigilant she feels in control of most situations. A moment and a few words is all it takes for her to feel she is losing her touch. Soap suds drip down the pot she's trying to wash after cooking dinner, they run quickly, like the rain. The silence is accustomed. "I'm numb," it's short, quiet, but she hears it.

A thousand soapy suds later and she has a reply. "You want to talk about it?" her hands dry on a slightly damp tea towel. Against the counter, concern on her face, she could be a friend for all he knows, rather than a colleague. His eyes bore holes into her kitchen table.

"What's there to talk about? I fucked up, big time," his voice is still that monotone carelessness that the team have so often looked over as tiredness.

"Maybe why you fucked up," she responds as if it's obvious. She sees him repress a wince, then silence. She soon goes back to dishes. He is done talking. And sometimes Emily can be caught off guard twice, but it's a notveryoften moment.

"I was tired of losing them over and over again, tired of the pain it brought," his words are detached, dull, and he's not really confronting it. It's just another _littlething_. "I knew me and Haley were over but… I really thought we would catch Foyet before… You play the worst scenarios over and over in your head, but it never really lives up to the actual event," and she doesn't know what to say, against lost for words. His knuckles are white on the table, his expression eerily fixed. It occurs to her that Aaron Hotchner is more disturbed than either she, or Rossi believed. An authoritative fixture becomes shaky and uncertain. She doesn't want to admit that she's a little more than scared.

He stands suddenly, and she visibly jumps although she doubts he notices. "Where are you going?" her voice quivers like china plates in boiling water. He's in the living room, his back to her and his shoulders slumped. That unspoken threat of exposure lures over them, and suddenly, sickeningly, Emily realises she's become that bureaucratic authority she has such a distaste for. People change. C'est la vie. He turns to look at her.

"I don't know," he rubs his eyes "Bed, maybe. I'm tired," and she doesn't believe him for one second, and she's pretty sure he knows she doesn't. But she'll play along, because they're stuck in this nightmareland together.

Hours later she locks the doors, he hasn't stirred from the guest room and she's half convinced he has a stash of narcotics somewhere. Logic tells her it's illogical. She goes to bed feeling uneasy. She isn't sure where they stand, and she isn't sure if they're making progress, or at this rate if they will. She is too out of her depth to think of trying to save him from drowning.

For now she'll try and keep them afloat, wishing there was some kind of manual for the 'whathappensafter'. Lying in her bed she's more tired than she thinks, she doesn't wake to see Aaron pick the lock on her door and leave the apartment.

* * *

**Sorry for the late update, I moved out of halls and it was stressful. **

**I'm a few chapters ahead of this, and I was trying to work out what age Hotch and Emily would have been in the flashbacks. I thought they were early twenties, but my beta and I figure Hotch would have been about 32 (as he's 47 in the present) and Emily 25 (as she's about 42), so they're not as young as I thought *sad face* although the backgrounds are ambiguous enough that age isn't that big an issue, my problem is I overthink things. **

**With that out of the way, thanks to everyone who has reviewed, alerted and favourited so far, and I'm glad you liked the chapter from Reid's POV. I apologise for any grammer and spelling mistakes. Please let me know if you guys want other team interaction, as I plan to have him speak with Morgan a few chapters ahead.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds.**


	7. Chapter 7

_"He's alone in his house out there, far, far away. He sleeps with his eyes open. He was so sad, last night, in this house out there, he took my hand, and whispered."_ - I'll Drown - Soley.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

She doesn't wake. Good. He doesn't know where he's going.

The streets are quiet, save for a few cars here and there. He knows though, if he walks down Madison Street, and a few backstreet alleys he'll get to the busy bright lights of the city centre. Open signs to clubs and bars will flash like neon deities, there'll be loud yelling, and perhaps he can forget himself. It's tempting, so tempting.

A distraction. More quiet streets, and part of him wants to fight this. Part of him doesn't understand why he's trying to. He spent most of today thinking how much better those little white pills would make him feel, or that needle, or both. It's hard not to. And it's harder not to tell everything to her, to realise they're GrownUp now, and that things are different. Seventeen years different.

People pass occasionally, but he doesn't care for them. Shadows swallow him whole, and storm clouds rage in his head, the darkness makes him disappear. He is a nameless, faceless identity, wandering the streets wearily, looking, no waiting, walking… just walking.

The streets get more and more familiar, ladies with painted faces and kids in cardboard houses. Music plays from one of the upstairs flats. Not loud, obnoxious club music, but a quiet song that stirs another memory

"Sometimes I'm happy, sometimes I'm blue,"_ Christmas was always the same, his dad is sitting in his chair, his mother is serving coffee and speaking to Sean in his highchair. The smell of cooking turkey, roast potatoes, and vegetables fills the air._

_"Who's got lots of presents, who does?" she coos, Sean giggles. His mom kisses his dad on the cheek, "It's a wonderful Christmas darling," she comments._

_"The boy doesn't seem to be appreciating it," it's short, terse, and he sees his mother tense._

"My disposition depends on you," _the singer croons. His father rises from his chair._

_"I am enjoying myself dad, I do appreciate it," Aaron says quietly, and there's almost a dullness in his voice, because he knows he can't avoid this._

_"You really need to learn more manners Aaron, what have I told you about manners?" his voice is getting louder, Sean is getting distressed, out of the corner of his eye he can see his mother pick him up._

_"Dad, please it's a really good Christmas, and I, thank you for the gifts they wer-" the first blow is to the face, red hot iron poker slaps, being used to it doesn't even begin to describe it._

"Sometimes I love you, sometimes I hate you," _he's dimly aware of his mother hurrying about the kitchen, trying to get the kettle to boil faster, to distract him. Kicks, and punches rain down in torrents. He wants to be in GrownUp-land already. Most days he wonders why he puts up with this._

_"I don't work all day to come home to an ungrateful son! One day Aaron you're going to learn that the world" - punch- "isn't" - kick - "nice," - punchpunchkickslapkick._

"But it's when I hate you, it's 'cause I love you,"

_"I'm only trying to look out for you Aaron, teach you how the world really works," he can't move from the floor, his body is exploding in pain. His dad looks tired, but satisfied. Some days he likes to taunt the man further, just to show he isn't broken. Other days he leaves it, because these are just littlethings. Little issues in little quantities, he doesn't want to break up his family, not really. His dad takes a cup of coffee from his mother._

_"Thanks dear," he says and sits, as if he'd merely been having a pleasant conversation with Aaron. Aaron stands up shakily, his father's attention is back to the television, his mother is cooing over Sean who is laughing again._

_That never happened._

_He trudges to the door and gives one last look._

"So what can I do, when I'm happy with you?" The singer finishes.

Life goes on, people move on quickly, and nothing ever happened. It's the shushed up approach, the private approach, it solves nothing and everything. It turns everything into security and small, manageable _littlethings_, so this is just another _littlething_ he wants to think he can control. At least for now.

He makes his way quickly to the man in the corner, with a hat, smoking a cigarette. He doesn't want to be here longer than necessary. It's a simple transaction and _toosoontoosoon_ he's roaming the streets again, trying to find privacy because he's not really sure that he really wants this.

He's not sure when it changed from choice to compulsion. Or when he became okay with that.

Okay.

Standing on a bridge in a night more silent than a library, this is all the thinking time in the world, no thoughts that make sense will come to him. He wants to find someone new, but he keeps going back to who he was. The past is an ever present tormentor, it doesn't want him to forget, so badly that he wonders if subconsciously he's willing himself to remember them, just to relive the grief and the guilt.

_It's a living room light night. The night where he gets home on time, and Jack is still watching TV, and Haley is doing some form of housework, or watching TV with him. The paper work is finished, and he's ready to play Dad._

_He opens the front door, and as if on some automated cue Jack is running through in his Spider-man pyjamas. "Daddy," the word is extended, stretched like the grin on his face. It's pure, innocent, not distorted._

_"Hey buddy," he holds his son close "How was your day?" it's the bright optimism you have to use with children to convince them the world is still an o-kay al-right place. It's later you learn it never really has been. Haley stands at the door, smiling, for once, smiling, and there's no anger, no sadness._

_"Me and mommy went to the park," he yells out in toddler talk, he's over excited._

_"Sounds great, now let daddy get in the front door buddy. What did you and mommy do at the park?" Aaron closes the door, puts his coat on the stand, walks into the living room oh so simple._

_"Swings, and slide, and sandbox," he says happily, rubbing his eyes. Aaron glances at Haley, Jack is tired._

_"Buddy I think it's time for bed."_

_Tantrum Time._

_"I don't wanna go to bed, I wanna see you daddy," he moans, although it becomes evident he is exhausted, that he stayed up to see him. Back then guilt was just like a drop of water._

_Compromise Time_

_"Tell you what, how about me and mommy read you a story?" he asks, offers, pleads, and Jack's face lights up like a Christmas tree._

_They're settled down in the room, Aaron with a book in his hands, Haley on the other side of Jack. Happy family. The words are lost on him now, but the quiet peace isn't, the feeling that this is his life is relaxing, welcoming. Stepping over the threshold the job can't hurt him. He's bought into the Private Sphere, where monsters do not lurk in the forest, and hags don't block the path, and there are no hourglasses rapidly running out. This night he remembers in particular._

_Haley filed for divorce three weeks later._

If there was a starting point, where things went from worse, to worser, to worstest, then he can't pinpoint, vague thoughts place this time at the point of separation. But he doesn't really know.

The wind blows through his hair, it chills him a little although he never used to get cold. The small bag of pills in his pocket is heavier than it should be. He places it smooth, flat on the bridge. There is one, two, three, four _fivesixseveneightnineten_. Pure white. Circular perfect. It's enough to get him through a day. He picks one from the back and holds it in front of him. It would never end with one. There would be one, two, the whole bag emptied down, then… nothing, numb, but not bliss. It stopped being blissful a long time ago.

A long time ago he saw himself growing old with Haley. A long time ago he saw himself sending Jack to college. A long time ago he had enough to keep him sane.

The not so long a time ago he planned two funerals and a secret third. And maybe it's the night air that's changed, or that the haze on his brain has lifted slightly, but he knows he's been looking at the world through a coffin for too long. He just needs help being dug out. It doesn't stop the pills being tempting. He's _soclose_ to swallowing the Whole Packet, the _littlethings_ action with the Big Things consequences. It doesn't feel right though, and despite the need, the compulsion, he doesn't think he can. Is it really a compulsion then?

He watches _onetwothreefourfivesixseven_ little white pills fall down into the dark waters. Seven little snow droplets. He keeps three in his pocket as a justincase, justincase things get too much, justincase he can't handle this. Justincase he wants to throw all of this away again, because he isn't sure what he has is enough to throw away. He has to leave. It's getting late. Or early. And there's still one more place he needs to be.

* * *

Graveyards… each one is distinctive to him. That twenty plus gray slabs can be placed on green grass with similar gaps between them, and still look so individual never surprises him. He reckons it's the atmosphere. And this one is stabbing knives where his feelings should be.

He could walk this with his eyes closed, he moves fluidly, quickly, it doesn't make it any easier. They're by an oak tree, waiting, he thought a mixture of shade and sun would be nice for them, they're still near the birds and the flowers for company. But right now no bird's sing, flowers are dead in winter, and this place has never felt more alone. He sits on the grass and refuses to look at them, it's rare his rambles take him to such specific places. The grass is stubby and withering, and the dry dirt is cold and probably staining his trousers. From his pocket he removes his justincase in an actions clumsy enough to make him wonder if, with the same clumsyness, Reid had so-secretly-it-hadn't-even-existed stolen Tobias' dilauded.

The pills seem to glow in the dark, they entice him, brighten everything. Suddenly it is not a choice anymore, and he dry swallows the pills while another memory places on the cinema reel in his head.

_'com-pul-sion: noun: 1. The act of compelling; constraint; coercion. 2. The state or condition of being compelled. 3. Psychology. A strong, usually irresistible impulse to perform an act, especially one that is irrational of contrary to one's will.'_

_So was this a compulsion? That is the question, the question, the question. He paces his living room backforthbackforthbackforth question compulsion backforth. He stops. He's hardly Hamlet. At three in the morning, in an old t-shirt and jeans that have seen better days._

_An odd thought. Was Hamlet compelled by ghosts to kill Claudius? Or was it well thought out revenge? Did he really go mad? Then he realises he really ought to stop. Shakespeare at three in the morning is for English major's and madmen, and he doesn't quite yet consider himself a madman. Back to the question at hand, while his hands still shake, and the residue nightmares linger, and before the drugs enter his bloodstream. Was he compelled to do it? Really?_

_Facts his mind has been ignoring for a long time pop into his head. His cupboards are always bare, his clothes are just a little too loose. Carrying pills in his jacket pocket to work. Is it really all rational?_  
_He would really like the pills to take effect now… any minute-second… for a few minutes?seconds?hours? He's reached bliss._

_Minutessecondshours later he's crashing back to earth, numb but not blissfull, never blissful._

_What he would really really like is one of the team to be at his door, a personal trouble, a case, it doesn't matter. He retreats to an armchair and surveys the scene. Work is lying on the floor, cupboards hang bare, and Jack, and Haley's blood is still soaking the carpets. It's seeped into the walls to, he just has to push - so slightly - and red creeps through the cream wallpaper._

_Is compulsion really the question?_

_How can he keep living like this? That seems more appropriate. He never used to be affected by this job, yet each case, each day it gets worse. It occurs to him that if he doesn't go mad like Hamlet, he will surely go insane like King Lear. If in madness there is still no reprieve from them, is there really a point?_

_So what does that bring it down to? To live, to die, by his own hand, or an unsub, a walking death wish, what is he Macbeth now? He's not a Macbeth. He curls up on the floor. Blood stains the carpet. Blood blood red red blood. He's seen a lot of it in his time, too much. He wants to- ._  
_-Get up, clean up the mess and go back to bed, wait and float with the oblivion until he's adjusting his tie for work. There's nothing else to do anyway. No one's going to come to his door tonight._  
_Most days he thinks they never will._

It's a fine line, and he's not sure when he crossed it. Casual use to junkie use. Does it really matter in the end? When it happened. The point is he's here, he's made it, one of the lowest rungs of societies ladder. Whoop-de-doodle-do. It still hurts.

He sensed her presence as soon as she walked into the graveyard, quickly sneaking through the graves like a ghost. It's not like he cares for her to see him in this state, he's been in worse. It's kicked in anyway, roll on the bloodbuzz. He feels normal again for the first time in a long time. "I had a feeling I'd find you here," she's crouched down low with him, looking concerned. Haley's blue eyes- no Emily's brown ones stare intensely at him, he looks back, guarded but unguarded, lost and certain.

She knows, and he doesn't care, and for a minute he wonders if she does.

"Let's go Aaron," she sighs wearily and they rise to their feet. They leave the graveyard behind, the memories play like a cinema reel in his head. .

Her car smells of perfume and new leather.

_noescapenoescapenoescape_

He just wants everything to Stop.

* * *

**Okay I am really sorry for how late this update is, I have been stuck with some serious writers block. I hope you all enjoy anyway, and I apologise for any grammar and or spelling mistakes, as I had to edit this twice as the stupid fanfic document wouldn't save :(. Thank you to everyone who's alerted/reviewed/favourited it means a lot :) and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Minds of the Criminal.**


	8. Chapter 8

"_If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor._" - Albert Einstein

* * *

**Chapter 8**

The car stops at an all night diner, he feels… medicated. Her expression is unreadable, and he can't muster the strength to feel guilty. He doesn't really know why he should.

She's nervous, slightly, she's never see him in a such a lucid, vulnerable state. They order coffee, sit in a booth, as far as anyone knows, or cares to know, they are just two adults having conversations. To her though, this is different. This is three am coffee talks where they'd drink until they shook with sugar and caffeine. Where afterwards they could misbehave until breakfast. And work was a breeze until the last hour where they'd feign sickness, and, somehow, be at one another's house/apartment and doze in each others arms. It was the good life. And now, she thinks, it's turned into hell.

Emily shifts her nerves aside and focuses on the task at hand. To talk to him until he comes to, she'd done it before with Matthew, how was this supposed to be different? Suddenly the task is slightly easier, the person before her isn't the man she loved, but he isn't her boss either. "You gave me quite a scare," she says lightly, her hands cupping around her coffee mug.

"Why? Because I went outside?" he asks quietly.

"No, I guess… remember when we were younger and we used to do this?" she asks.

"Yeah, why?"

"It's amazing what can change in, in… seventeen years," she says quietly, he grimaces.

"New job, build a family, lose a family, become a drug addict… yeah a lot can happen."

"That isn't funny," she takes a sip of coffee.

"It wasn't meant to be, but it's right, isn't it?" he looks up at her, the honesty in his eyes burns her, she can't keep looking at him, but she can't look away either.

"I guess, you do know you just referred to yourself as an addict, can I quote you on that?" she asks, his stare makes her uncomfortable, although she guesses he's trying to figure out her endgame, or if she actually has one.

"Yes," he says suddenly.

"I thought that was everything you were trying to deny," she doesn't understand, what could change over the course of a night?

"People's minds change all the time Prentiss, and I've thought about it. I can't say when I became an addict, at what point it was, but I am. Am I still under house arrest then?" he asks it as though he already knows the answer. With the amount he's crammed into twenty odd years she'd be surprised if he didn't.

"Of course you are. Admitting you're an addict would help in therapy, and it may have aided your case if it weren't for tonight," she says quietly.

"How long will this house arrest go on for?" he asks. She shrugs. "Can I take asprin if I have a headache?"

"You're mocking me Aaron, why?"

"I'm tired… sick of everything and nothing… it's kind of exhausting to live in perpetual confusion," he sits back and looks down at his untouched coffee, his pupils are less constricted. He takes a sip, then another.

"Why don't you try and find answers somewhere?"

"They're not here," he says so low she has trouble hearing. And for a second she's drawn into this mad world, this mad little world of his where the sky could be purple for all she cares. A waitress smashes a coffee jug and the spell is broken. They're just two adults, sitting in a diner at three, now almost four, in the morning.

"Where do you think you'll find these answers then," she asks, her head propped on her elbows, her eyes laughing.

"Now you're mocking me."

She's not quite sure what's happened, but something's snapped and suddenly she's as sick of this as he is.

"Well then what are the questions Aaron? Why Haley died? Why Jack died? Why you couldn't save them in time? Why you and Haley got divorced? Because lets face it you're not going to find them at the bottom of a pill bottle, you're not going to find them here, and chances are you could go the Russian wilderness and still not find them. Shit happens Aaron, we see it everyday, their deaths, your divorce, they are just shit that happened and you need to deal with it. Alright?" The man is silent, and she wonders (a pang of guilt?), that perhaps she's gone too far.

"I don't know where I'll find them, but I don't think I can keep up with this nine to five and still make sense of everything," he says it with a desperation, like she has to (_has to!_) understand.

"So you want to cut and run?" this talk is turning as bitter as her coffee.

"I want a break!" the yell wakes the sleepy slumber of midnight patrons and waitresses, he adds, his voice lower "I want a break from all of this, maybe go back to Richmond for a bit, see Sean, just, just something that isn't serial killers and profilers. It'd be nice to have something to myself for once." he says quietly. Through her anger and frustration a small part of her understands, understands and has too yearned for the privacy he currently desires. For you to be unpredictable and unassuming to everyone around you, to not have your cards laid bare on the table for all to see… it's nice.

"Maybe you should go home then, once you've had some therapy and more detox, you're still under house arrest," he says nothing to this, head bent she takes pity, "One more week of being clean, that's all I ask, and a therapy session, then you can go back to your apartment, deal?" she asks, he looks at her and she swears she sees the frustration ebb slightly.

"Deal," he says quietly.

They break the pattern, and leave at five. She has work and doubts she's young enough to pull another caffeine fuelled all-nighter. They throw a jumble of notes on the table and leave.

* * *

His eyes open abruptly, and a thin layer of sweat covers his brow. His head feels like he's drank ten pints of beer then done another ten rounds with Tyson. His dream was, however, the main cause of his troubles. He had been dreaming of his mother, the quiet, timid woman of his childhood. As he grew older and more learned, he wondered why she did nothing to stop the beatings his father gave out. Was it just patriarchy? Or a weird sadistic enjoyment? Or adrenaline kick that kept her from acting? He wants to know.

He turns to lie on his back, grateful that the curtains are closed. The clock tells him it's three in the afternoon, normally he'd feel embarrassed at lying in bed so late, but then things haven't really been normal in awhile.

Ideas swirl in his head, and they form a plan which is anything but definite. He would play Prentiss's game, and hold her to her promise. One week, one therapy session, then… then he would go back, visit his mother in Richmond… talk to her in that house with the so-secret-they-don't-even-exist ghosts, then to his brother, because he can't remember the last time he spoke to Sean. Then… he's not sure, his one last week off before work again, more therapy? More talking and talking and talking.

He'll deal with that when he comes to it.

Right now he just wants to start at the beginning.

He thinks about her, his mother, sitting in that house where the walls scream silently, and blood, and tears, and gin hide in the walls. He almost feels sorry for her. But he isn't big enough to really mean it. He doesn't know what Sean knows of their father, Aaron's just glad, though he knows Sean resents it, that he never knew him. All he remembers is a briefcase and gin scented, loveless embraces.

At four he makes an effort to get up. Prentiss won't be back until six at least, but he's living in slow motion. The hot water of a shower eases the joints in his stiff arms, legs and back, he's been lying in his coffin too long. Time slips by and as if by clockwork, once he's dressed he hears Emily walk through the front door. He looks around the strange guest room, he's slowly getting more used to it. He walks into the kitchen. "Put the kettle on, I've been craving pasta all day," she comments, they're past 'hello's' and 'how was your day'. He dutifully fills it up and flicks the 'on' button.

"I'm still going to visit my mother after this, then Sean," he says, leaning on one of the worktops. She pauses, pasta in one hand and a large pot in the other. He reasons the pause is because he never mentions her, ever.

"I, Does she still live in that house?" she asks awkwardly.

"Hmm? Yeah, same house, she never wanted to sell it and move someplace smaller, my dad's life insurance is enough to cover it for two lifetimes," he wonders when he started to talk so off handed about personal issues.

"Alright, perhaps it'll do you some good," she says, and they lapse into silence once more.

He's annoyed that he keeps revealing so much to her. She's familiar, she's constant, and he forgets that there is those seventeen years between them. He doesn't want to deal with this right now.

They sit down to pasta with pasta sauce and vegetables, because everything has to be_ n-o-r-m-a-l_. At first he thinks they'll end the meal in silence as well, then a question comes to his mind. "How are the team doing?" he asks, he wants her to take the topic and discuss it for awhile, he wants a break from his own head.

"They're alright, a little lost but coping nonetheless. Morgan is doing well as acting chief. Garcia and Kevin have been trying to help Reid to convince the coffee machine company that the machine was faulty, and that it wasn't Reid's tripping over a chair that broke it. It's more of a past time than anything else, and mostly just to avoid damage costs from the Bureau and the price of a new one… I hear the other agents have had their eye on the latest high tech brand, courtesy of Dr Reid of course," the thought of Reid trying to back out of damage payment makes him laugh. This startles him further, he never knew just how much tension could be relieved through laughter. "JJ is bubbly as always, I think she's enjoying the reprieve from cases, and Rossi is worried about you," this causes Aaron to pause.

"Did you tell him about last night?" he asks.

"No, I was going to, but it depends," she says calmly, and Aaron is aware this isn't an on the spot decision.

"Depends on what?" he asks.

"Whether it's a one off or not," and _n-o-r-m-a-l_ is thrown out of the window along with any pretence that they are happy.

"I can't answer that."

"And you know that isn't good enough, I think you should speak with him at some point," she comments. Then she relaxes, "I'm tired of constantly talking about this," she says sadly.

"So am I." Then her eyes start dancing again and a mischievous grin appears on her face.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Movie night?" she offers, and he smiles.

"Movie night," he agrees.

As they sit down to whatever film she's picked Aaron feels more relaxed that he has in awhile. This is nice. He wonders when was the last time that things had been '_just nice_'. He doesn't really have an answer, and as he sinks into her couch and feels the heat radiating off her, and her slow, deep breathing he reasons that he doesn't really care.

* * *

**I didn't like this chapter much, I promise the next one will be a bit better as I can finally bring in other team members :). Thank you for those who have reviewed, alerted and favourited, it means a lot as always :). I'm more confident in writing this now as I have more of a plan (yaaaaay). I apologise for spelling and or grammar mistakes, and I hope your enjoy.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds, you know if you don't put Criminal Minds in capitals it's like saying you don't have control over the minds of criminals... I think I need more coffee.**


	9. Chapter 9

"_There are two things a person should never be angry at, what they can help, and what they cannot._" - Plato

* * *

**Chapter 9**

He doesn't quite believe he's actually here, in a psychologists waiting room, everything's surreal again. He can't help but profile the room. The walls are cream, and there's one or two potted plants to put people at ease, the receptionist is an attractive forty something woman with a patient smile and a calm demeanour. There is one other patient in the room, a woman in her thirties, with a tan line around her finger. Divorced. The shaky looks she gives the room, and the way her eyes dart suggest it wasn't mutual. She flinches when the receptionist suddenly shuts the window. Domestic abuse?

He's drawn out of his musing as the door opens, a young man no older than twenty walks out, fists clenched, deep breaths and face stoic, the session must have been bad. He wonders what he's gotten himself into. Another man exit's the room, his… psychologist - even thinking it is difficult! - and Aaron tries as best as he can not to profile the man. He's short (5'9), with a quiet demeanour, yet the casual glance he gives the room suggests he's more aggressive and domineering than he wants his patients to believe. He shakes Aarons hand, and leads him into the office. "So, Aaron, can I call you Aaron? I feel it is more personal, I'm Dr Hadley but you can call me John if you wish," he gestures for Aaron to sit on the blue sofa, while he moves to a comfier armchair in front of his desk, the file is already in it's seat.

_Could this get anymore clichéd?_ Aaron thinks.

"So you're here because of a dependency on narcotics? Do you want to talk about that?" he asks, Aaron's eyes raise slightly before he controls himself.

The man doesn't half cut through the crap, yet he'd hardly set up a rapport with him, what kind of psychologist is he?

"It seems like you already know, Doctor," Aaron spits. Hadley leans forward.

"Yes, but I am asking you," he states, and it makes Aaron suddenly angry, he tries to get his emotions in check. What was this man's endgame? Did he want to be punched in the face? Swallowing his anger he tries to keep his head in the game.

"I don't think there's anything to talk about," he says calmly. The doctor looks at him patronisingly.

"I'm aware that as a profiler you see yourself above therapy Aaron, however perhaps this superior belief you were infallible to pitfalls of the mind lead to your drug abuse?"

"That's ridiculous, it was… was" he stops, realising Hadley's endgame. He's wants me to get angry so I slip up and tell him something. Just like the locks and bolts over his mouth are sealed tight again. Its not because he doesn't want to talk, it's just he thinks if he does, he won't be able to shut up. And this man, this therapist who's seen hundred, if not thousands of people like him, isn't the sort of person he wants to open up to.

Then who is?

"Aaron… Mr Hotchner?" Aaron looks up at Hadley, "What do you think?" he asks, Hotch blinks, realising that in Hadley's rant lay some sort of question.

"About what?" he asks.

"What do you think lead you to your drug abuse? I don't mean what started, what do you think caused an inkling? You don't have to share it with me, but I really think it's something you should explore," Hadley seems more subdued now, quieter, Aaron isn't sure whether his first impression of the man was wholly correct. Was he being played by Hadley the way his team tricked an unsub? He doesn't know.

"What do you mean exactly?" Aaron asks, façade or genuine he's drawn into a more demure Hadley.

"What I mean, is narcotics themselves are a rather specific coping mechanism to turn to. I see self harmers, anorexics, alcoholics, each driven to their 'demons' through various events in their life. I'd like you to at least think of what could have driven you to that," Aaron sits in silence, aware that Hadley isn't pushing him to talk.

_It was bad this time, blood drips slowly from the gash on his head, down his cheek. It's a lot warmer than rain, he notes. His father has left, in his car, with his briefcase so it'll look like he was working. His mother is in the kitchen._

_The memory is so old he sees it in an almost dreamy quality, with glitches and flickers, like a film reel. It's still a watchable film though. He opens the kitchen door, his mother has just hung up the phone, and is leaning over the kitchen table._

_It's a small action he's missed a thousand and one times. In (so-secret- they-don't-even-exist) movements, his mother opens one of the pill bottles and swallows onetwothree - the magic number, and washes it down with an ocean of water._

_No… It's not logical._

_Children of addicts don't…_

_Yet it clicks in his head slowly. He gets it slowly. That comforting feeling of pills down his throat, the knowledge it would lead to c-a-l-m._

_He waits in the living room until he sees the doctor's car pull up, then he takes his place in the kitchen. His mother leans over him with a just-rinsed wet flannel. "Remember honey, remember how we practised. You fell down the stairs playing astronaut, didn't you? You were trying to jump on the moon, just like Mr Armstrong. Weren't you honey?" He looks at his mother, the pain is dulling now, tear marks are dried on his face._

_"Yes mommy," he says quietly. His mother gives him a soft, delicate hug. It's lucid, reassuring, and he likes her when she's like this, she is… poised. Her eyes become a beautiful blue he never got to inherit, her face is no longer distressed. Those little pills made her all better-_

_No-_

_They always make people better._

"Mr Hotchner?" Aaron's eyes move from the window to Hadley.

"Sorry?" the man is still not impatient.

"We have ten minutes left of this session today, is there anything else you wish to discuss before we wrap up for today?" words rush out of his throat and want to crawl out of his tongue an-

"No, thank you. Thank you for seeing me," he says, and stands. Hadley smiles pleasantly.

"I hope you have a lot to think about for our next session, I will see you then," Aaron nods and leaves the office. The scared woman is still in the waiting room.

He sits on a bench in the hall of the psychologist's office. Emily said she would pick him up soon.

He doesn't want it to make sense, because it doesn't always. They've seen cases where children of addicts lead normal lives, and never have problems with drugs or alcohol. But then Aaron wonders when his own life as ever been normal, and of the cases where children of addicts have become just that. He doesn't want to think of the sociology behind it now. He wants to talk though, and he knows who to. He thinks this might be easier than speaking to Emily, at least Aaron doesn't have to live with him.

It's raining when she arrives, windscreen wipers are on full, and the heater is full blast, he appreciates the warmth. They don't say anything, they just sit for a few minutes while cars pass, the only sound is the hum of the heaters, and the occasional speak of a windscreen wiper. He just wants to think, and she understands that. The peace almost makes him smile.

She makes tea when they get back. Sitting in the living room there's a peace about them that hasn't been there for days. Perhaps it's because they've finally spent some time apart, he isn't sure. "How did it go?" she asks, her voice is soft. He looks at her, unsure what to say.

"I didn't really say much," he says at last.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she adds quietly, when the stretch of silence reaches beyond comfort.

"It… it made me think, and that's all I can really say," he says quietly. Her hands hold her tea mug tighter.

"Do you want to go back?" she asks. He looks at her, his expression guarded.

"I have a choice?" he says slowly. Then she smiles slowly, and crosses her legs.

"No, not really," they laugh, although it isn't really funny.

* * *

Thursdays he coaches basketball.

It's a run down area, if Aaron strains he can hear gunshots. But he's off duty… Off Duty. They're still playing when he arrives, Emily thinks he's out for fresh air. He knows she doesn't trust him, but he's a legal adult who used to argue for a living… she didn't have a chance really.

He doesn't noticed him at first, and Aaron finds something peaceful about watching him coach. He's fully involved, laughs with the children, he's a fair teacher, and Aaron is reminded, a good leader. He pushes these thoughts from his head. He looks around, the sky is overcast.

Afterwards, once the kids have ran inside to get their things, Aaron approaches Morgan. "Hotch, what are you doing here?" the man is surprised, and Aaron can see a little worried. This is harder than he thought.

"I… do you have a minute, I want to talk," he never faltered before this, Aaron realises there's a lot of things he has to get used to.

"Sure," Morgan replies just as uncertainly, as he walks into the centre to chase everyone up.

They end up on a bench looking at tarmac playing court, the traffic is a faint hum in the background. _It's cold. _He thinks as a particularly unforgiving breeze goes past.

"How have you been?" Morgan asks, Aaron looks at him, he's tense, confused, does Morgan really think he will go mental on him?

"Not that great, but I guess you already know that," and he wonders how much Morgan knows.

"I've heard you've had some personal problems and had to take time off," he offers, and it dawns on Aaron that he doesn't know, that he probably should know, that it doesn't particularly give a damn if he knows now because everyone will sooner or later.

"What are the theories?" he asks, Morgan looks at him, frowning slightly.

"I don't see why that matters Hotch," he says quietly.

"Please, just humour me," Aaron replies, pretty certain his out of character behaviour is unnerving Derek more than the truth will.

"Well JJ and Garcia are convinced you're an alcoholic, only they're stumped on the signs… as for Reid…" Derek looks uncomfortable, but Aaron's stare compels him to finish. "Reid thinks you're on narcotics, which is… I have a lot of respect for Reid, but it's a little crazy," he finishes, looking at Hotch, as if waiting to be told, and not expecting to be told at the same time.

"Reid's right," the words take awhile to sink in.

"What?"

"It is narcotics, not alcohol, not grief, I thought it would have been obvious," he adds as he sees the dots connect in Morgan's mind faster than they should. Morgan frowns.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you here? And why are you telling me this?" he thinks for a second that Morgan is angry, before seeing the confusion on his face.

"I need to talk to you, it wasn't fair that the Acting Chief role was put on your shoulders again," Morgan rubs his eyes.

"It's caused a lot more sleepless nights, for all the wrong reasons," Aaron finds himself laughing. It's the first time he's laughed in awhile, it's a relief. "What actually happened?" he almost flinches at how direct Morgan's gaze is, he almost forgot how direct the man could be when getting to the point of something.

"I overdosed," he says it casually, like it's a _littlething_. Morgan doesn't take the same view.

"… Overdosed? How?" he isn't an unsub, Aaron summarises he's allowed to be unnerved.

"How anyone else overdoses, Rossi was my emergency contact and he managed to keep it out of the books officially." He looks at Morgan's tense face.

"Fuck, that isn't funny."

"My sides are splitting," Aaron deadpans. There's a long pause, and Aaron begins to wonder if this was ever a good idea in the first place.

"I take it you're not in rehab," he looks wearily at Hotch.

"I didn't get that much leave…"

"But you wouldn't have went anyway," Morgan concludes.

"I didn't see a point."

"You overdosed."

"I could still function though, day to day to day," he counters, Morgan doesn't comment. They watch a few cars pass, Aaron looks up at the sky, the clouds are a lot darker now "I had my first psychology session last Thursday," Morgan chuckles.

"I'll bet that went well," and the tense look is back on his face.

"I didn't try to be a smart ass, but I didn't say anything either," Morgan frowns, as if asking Aaron why he's bringing this up. "He, the psychologist, actually made me think."

"Okay, and how did that go?" Morgan asks, looking with interest.

"He said that behaviour our parents took part in while we are younger influences us in someway. That there's no guarantee that we will uptake this behaviour, however, depending on what we associate it with, and the situations life throws at us, we could," Morgan pauses for a minute, and thinks.

"Alright, but I still don't see what you're getting at, your parents weren't drug addicts," Aaron remains silent for a few minutes. He's unsure whether it's a good idea to go further, he's at the point where he could just dismiss it all as bullshit. But that train is running, fast. He has nothing to lose.

"After my father hit me, if it was bad, my mother would call in a doctor. She always took three pills of some kind before the doctor arrived. I didn't know what it was until I was older, but I liked how it made her relaxed, less hysterical…" Morgan is shaking his head.

_Three's the magic number._ Aaron thinks dully.

"You're not telling me that you're a junkie 'cos your mom liked to pop a few pills when she was stressed."

"All I'm saying is if I subconsciously associated that action with comfort, is it not at least partially reasonable that, in an act of unconscious decision making, I chose narcotics over anything else." Morgan remains quiet. Thoughtful.

"I guess, but I don't think it applies to everyone," Derek's arms close in around himself slightly, it's subtle, but still noticeable. The sky darkens further, and reminds them that it's getting late.

"I never said it did," and for a second, Aaron sees the fourteen year old Derek Morgan, razor blades and blood, with more shame and frustration than he can handle. It's so well placed he can pass it off for a gash sustained in a fight with an unsub. From thumb to the underside of his forearm, all Aaron can see is blood on the younger agent. Then he blinks. The blood disappears. But it was there, once.

Morgan looks at him in that way that tells Aaron that he knows he was staring. Aaron looks at his hands, they tremble slightly, and that silent question is aired from one troubled man to the next. "It'll never really go away, it'll always be lurking, waiting to pull you back down. Sometimes you're strong enough to resist, others…" he trails off, but Aaron knows what that means, knows what that look means. It occurs to him that while he's been out, bent on destroying himself, he's neglected the team and their struggles. Can he take more guilt? Or will his legs give way?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Aaron offers, Morgan pauses, then shakes his head.

"It's old stuff, always old stuff," he says quietly. Both men stand to leave, realising the conversation is winding down. Streetlights flicker on slowly, and suddenly it's too cold to be sitting outside. "You're asking the wrong questions, Aaron," Derek says as he locks up the Centre. They walk to the entrance.

"What questions should I be asking?" and he wants to know in earnest.

"Drug abuse to forget, cutting, eating disorders, they're all about control. We control what we can do to our bodies to make us feel better about the things we can't control. So what are you trying to control?"

It's late. It's rhetorical.

He's glad because he doesn't know. Morgan offers him a lift home, he accepts. The journey is silent.

He stares at the outside of his apartment, he's supposed to be at Emily's. Should he stay? Or should he go? The wind is a lot colder than earlier, and he stands, shivering for a good five minutes. Without much thought he heads in the direction of her house, ignoring the voices that stab at his brain.

He's scared to be alone.

* * *

**I would have updated a few days ago but life got in the way, on the good side my room is now prettyful and pink for all my Marilyn Manson pictures :P. This was by far the hardest chapter to write so far, I hope the scene with the psychologist and Morgan were alright - feedback would be great as I have no idea if I got this right or not :S. Anyway I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed, favourited and alerted so far, you guys rock as you make me see this story is still worth writing :). I think it's a bit of a stretch saying that drug abuse to control is similar control channelled through eating disorders and self harm, but it was the only way I could link it in. I mean it in the sense that Hotch is using narcotics to control what his mind can, and can't show him. I hope that makes sense.**

**I apologise for any grammar and or spelling mistakes, and I hope you enjoy.**

**I do not own Criminal Minds or there would have been an episode involving a pink elephant.**


	10. Chapter 10

"_It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly and remain an egg. We are like eggs at the present. And you cannot go on indefinately being an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go__ bad._" - C.S. Lewis.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

She shudders slightly in her sleep, and turns her head so he gets a waft of faint perfume. He didn't think her to be the perfume sort. He shifts between the sheets until he's lying comfortably on his side, just watching her. Really he _shouldbe_ moving, this is unprofessional, crude even. But he doesn't move, he stays, because everything he's done in the past few weeks has been unprofessional, and it's not like no one is going to see this.

He isn't sure how this came about. Physically he knows all to well, but mentally, it's not like either of them were thinking. He wants to kiss her wrist, then up her arm to her neck, rouse her from her sleep and do that all over again. This draws him up short, it's the first time he's genuinely wanted something without the need there, without the com-pul-sion. For this there is no guilt, and no shame, and no regret, because the world stopped being normal since he died momentarily in the ER. But it was before that, since he took those goddamn pills in the first place. He turns to stare at the ceiling.

_He's sitting at the kitchen table. He went for a run this morning. Her eyes stray to him every few seconds, looking at him to make sure he's there, scanning his pupils, tracking his every move. He worried her. He doesn't care, because this time he was honest. _Hon-est Aa-ron_. It's got a nice, two syllable ring to it. He pushes his half drank mug of coffee to the side, stands, and walks towards her, then stops._

_Record, zoom, and log. Her eyes don't leave him._

_He looks at her, she tries to avoid his eyes. _Is she uncomfortable?_ He thinks. "I'm clean," his voice is quiet, with a slight tone of earnest. "I went for a run," he speaks slowly. She doesn't respond. "What's wrong? Don't you believe me?" his voice is rising, because he's sick and tired of this. It hurts that she doesn't trust him. That she has no reason to. He rolls up his sleeves, the marks aren't fresh._

_"Put your arms away," she takes a step back. Just like that the world becomes too much again._

_"Well what do you expect me to do? You blatantly don't believe me?" he's not yelling, the volume of the world has been put up to LOUD. "I am fucking sick of this. Three weeks ago you would have trusted me with your life, now I can't even take a fucking run!" She looks at him, just as angry._

_"Three weeks ago none of us thought you were a fucking junkie! Is it any wonder I can't trust you, when the first thing you do when you do run off is use? You have given me nothing to go on, no promise that you'll stay clean, then you disappear without telling me where to, and I'm meant to take your word for it?" the words crash around him like glass. If he steps on a broken shard it might show how much this is hurting._

_"I just want you to know that every time I leave this prison it's not to shove pills down my throat," his voice is quieter, deadly. She's still worried._

_"And I need you to see that there is no conceivable way I can trust you with that," he wants out of here, this hurts._

_Instead, he moves towards her, and her worried face, and her guarded eyes. They're tired, and battered, and broken. There's always so much tension._

_It's a mad urge, an irresistible pull, he wants to know if she is still the same person underneath it all, he wants to see if he is. Maybe that would be a good starting place. He kisses her softly, his hands half way to holding her. At first she doesn't respond, for a second the world freezes for forever, then… She's hesitant, and his arms encase hers. He pulls her c-l-o-s-e-r. Slowly so, his hands find their way around her hips, her back, her bum. They move up to her shoulders, her neck, her hair. She still feels the same, kisses just as softly, just as passionate, if not more experienced. They look at each other. The only thing he can hear is their breathing._

_It's make or break time. They can cut and run anytime they want. A littlethings action, for a _Big Things_ consequence.  
_

_The confirmation is in her eyes, on her lips as they crash into his again. It's all he needs, so they make their way to the bedroom. Somewhere along the line they swap fabric for skin. She still smells the same, still tastes the same, but she's different, completely different, and he isn't sure how. She's more hesitant, less fiery but just as passionate. He stops thinking about it._

_Afterwards they lie together, no words, no conversations, silence again, but it's a good silence he thinks. She grabs his hand but won't look at him, she faces the wall while he stares at her milky white skin and brownalmostblack hair. Fingers trace from her hair, down her shoulder, across her waist and rest on her hip. She's still the same, and at the same time he's a stranger. But he thinks he could get used to that, if she'd let him. For now reality can escape his mind and he can dream of a thousand and one other lives. He doesn't notice he's fallen asleep._

A sudden siren scream wakes him from his reminiscing. He turns back brief to look at her, he knows he ought to get dressed, but he doesn't want to leave her. In the end the phone rings and he has no choice. Getting up slowly he pulls on his boxers and a t-shirt before walking into the hall. It's like an offencive intruder the way it keeps ringing, disrupting, and if he wasn't certain that it's rings would aid in waking Emily, he would have happily let it continue. "Hello, Prentiss residence," he says, his voice is sleepier than he thought.

"You're sleeping? On a Wednesday afternoon?" Rossi says dubiously.

_"Jack wouldn't quit crying all nigh-"_

"I had a poor night's sleep," he says quickly, wondering why his mind immediately strayed to Jack.

"The humidity is killing me as well," Rossi comments, Aaron hadn't noticed. "I just wanted to ask how you've been, we haven't spoken in awhile," Rossi continues. Aaron can't trust him.

"Who spoke to you?" he asks immediately, and, for a second, he sees Rossi smile on the other end of the phone.

"Emily called me up the other day."

"What did she say?" his brow furrows, and his voice lowers, she's still sleeping as far as he's aware.

"That you've been out a lot, not telling her where you're going, going out at odd hours," his tone makes Aaron half expect he's going to add 'the usual' on the end. He doesn't.

"I've been going for runs a lot, for walks to clear my head. I went to the psychiatrist-"

"And barely said anything," Rossi finishes.

"H-how do you know that? That should be confidential," he can't help but let his voice rise, why do they need to interfere so much? Rossi's tone rises to meet Aaron's anger.

"Hey, I was the one who made sure your overdose was left out of hospital records, if need be I can pull a few strings with judges to give me sole custody of your medical decisions, which includes access to your therapy files. Believe me Aaron, I don't want it to come to that, but if you're going to keep going behind mine and Emily's backs, and never talk about your problems then by hell I will. I've seen a lot of good men go down similar paths, and I'll be damned if the same thing happens to you," for a minute he's stunned, it takes awhile to process. His life, out of his hands, his job, the team, would Dave really do that? He's angry, and determined, Aaron swallows, if Dave thought it was bad enough, he'd have him under house arrest with a detector on his fucking leg.

"When have I went behind your's and Emily's backs?" he asks eventually.

"She told me all about your little midnight walk to the cemetery, did you really think she would, in the long run, keep that to herself? Especially as you keep wandering off. She also told me you're still seeing Haley and Jack everywhere… That isn't normal Aaron. I'm not saying you should be over their deaths, but if you can't pull yourself together then you will have to leave the field," his stomach feels like it's been plummeted into the next ice age.

This can't be happening.

"She… she told you that?" his voice is detached.

"Yes, is there a problem with that?" Rossi sounds concerned now.

"… No," he wants it to come across as sarcastic but the detached tones stay in his voice. Now he just sounds confused.

"Uh… anyway Aaron I've gotta go, can we meet up for coffee tomorrow at two?" he asks, although Aaron doesn't see why he's asking, he doesn't have a choice in the matter.

"Sure, Starbuck's by the George Fountain?"

"Yeah, the usual, speak later," his voice is still concerned. Aaron doesn't say goodbye, they don't exist in his vocabulary anymore. It was a _littlethings_ change to cope with a Big Things shock. He hangs up the phone, and wanders down to the living room, forget joining her, right now he doesn't want to look at her.

He reflects over a cup of coffee, although reflecting is more kicking himself over not noticing the obvious. Her almost timid behaviour, the way she was so damn nervous! And he hadn't even noticed! He made a living out of noticing things, so what does that say about him? His job performance, however, is the last thing on his mind, it's more the betrayal that stings. The seventeen years different that's punching him in the stomach. That sameness, that difference he felt, she isn't as loyal as she once was, why? People Change. Life changes them.

And Rossi's ability to take his life from him, strip it down in an effort to 'help' him. He'd never work in law enforcement again. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Haley sitting in an armchair, watching him, watching him crumble, watching his stress. She doesn't go away. Still he'd rather it be Jack walking through the door than…

"I had to tell him," her voice is quiet, apologetic.

"Yes, you had to," he spits. She winces slightly, but continues.

"Slipping up is one thing, but being out at odd hours and admitting to seeing your dead wife and child… for fuck's sake Aaron it screams delusional!"

"I told you that in confidence!" he responds savagely, his voice doesn't feel like his own.

"And something's can't stay in confidence," he doesn't respond, just stares at her for a few minutes, then.

"So what was that?" he asks "Pity? Regret? Because if you're so scared I'm going to go crazy on you, then why the hell did you sleep with me?"

"You started it!" she shouts quickly.

"Like you didn't have a choice? As if you couldn't have stopped said no," his voice is bitter, but he's stopped shouting. He doesn't feel like her boss anymore, only that same bitter man, caught in a sudden break up seventeen years in the past. She walks further into the room and sits on the arm of a chair.

"It wasn't pity, and it wasn't shame, Aaron. I was tired of all this tension, tell me, is it still there?" he pauses, and thinks. He's angry, he's still tired, and when he looks at her he feels sick. But she isn't SSA Prentiss anymore, he isn't even thinking of the BAU. Instead he sees a stranger in Emily's clothing, that confusion/anger/denial you get when someone you think you know turns into different and unexpected.

"No," he says quietly "But you still told him everything, why should I trust you now? I haven't slipped up since the cemetery, I'm trying. Do you believe me?" he looks her in the eyes, his blunt stare unnerves him,

_She wants to nod, she wants to nod, shewantstonodshewantstonod … no-_

"No," and the crushed look in his eyes makes her guilty, and it makes her sad, but she wouldn't have answered differently the second time around.

"Will you ever believe me?" he asks. She pauses. Then.

"Make an effort at getting better, act like you know what you're doing, like you're getting back on track. Talk to your psychiatrist."

"It isn't as easy as you think, you don't…"

"I don't understand? Is that it?" he nods. She sighs, and her hands shake, but she needs to meet him halfway.

"I've been through therapy," she meets his eyes, falters, then raises them again "When I was fifteen..." her coffee table has suddenly become _fas-cin-a-ting!_ "I had an abortion… The only people who I could have talked to were Matthew Benton and John Cooley. John wasn't there, and... and Matthew was too wrapped up in questioning God. I went a little crazy, my mother got worried, and I was sent to therapy… I know what it's like when everyone tries to control every aspect of your life, and how hard it is to talk to strangers about it… but it gets easier with time," she looks up at him again. "It's not easy to talk to your therapist now, but, the sooner you do the easier it will become. Baby steps take us to somewhere, and once we're somewhere we can really start to walk," she tries to smile, but his face is more stoic than she's seen it in months. She waits for him to say something, anything, he puts his coffee mug on the table.

"You think opening up about one thing is going to make me trust you again? That's it's going to change everything? I'll go to more therapy, but first I want to go h- to Richmond," he vowed never to call it home when he left almost thirty years ago. She frowns.

"Why do you want to go back there?" she asks confused.

"I want to talk to my mother, visit her, then Sean. You said I could," he waits.

"I said you could," is her reply "When do you want to go?"

"Friday to Tuesday," he says.

"If you book a therapy appointment for Wednesday, and another for the next Friday," he pauses, there is no way out of this.

"Deal," he says quietly. She nods and goes off to make coffee. He stares at the table, lost in his own thoughts. He feels empty.

* * *

Dave isn't as tense over the phone. The Starbucks is busy, too busy to really be overheard. "How are you feeling?" he asks, as Aaron sits down with a cup of coffee, from the finished sandwich and half drunk latte he guess's Dave been here awhile trying to think of what to say.

"Alright, yourself?" he's being polite.

"Not bad, have you thought about what I said yesterday?"

"What? The part where you destroyed my confidence in Emily, or the part where you threatened to destroy my livelihood?" he asks as if he's commenting on the weather.

"I never knew you to be one for dramatics, Aaron," Dave tries to keep the conversation light.

"I told her those things in confidence Dave, then I find out she's told everything to you. I trusted her not to tell anyone."

"You're not a girl in high school Aaron, this is real life, and we need to make sure you're mentally sound to go back to your job. Erin will expect an evaluation, and we can't lie on that. If we don't think you can do your job we have to be honest," he states plainly.

"I was doing my job! I can do my job, I am coping!"

"You're doing a great job of showing it," the ferocity matches Aaron's own, but he doesn't shrink back.

"What do you want from me?" Rossi regards him for a few moments.

"We want you to trust us, be able to talk to us so we can help you. We want to get the old Aaron Hotchner back, because quite frankly you are not him," this stings a little, but he knows Dave is right.

"I'm going back to Richmond tomorrow," he says slowly. Dave finishes his coffee.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" he asks.

"I don't have any others if that's what you mean," pause "I don't speak to her, I don't even write, I used to send the odd Christmas card… It isn't out of guilt, I…" he pauses, he needs to be _hon-est_ "I'm don't like the house, it has too many memories. But I need to speak to her, and get some answers before she dies," he says is casually, he doesn't want to admit that it hurts. As he looks at his mentor he sees he already knows.

"Fair enough, I'm not going to stop you if that's what you're thinking," the thought had crossed his mind. He gives Dave a confused look, "You're trying to reconnect with people Aaron, whether you're completely sane and completely clean or not, would you really have done this two months ago?" he pauses, and thinks. He's knows he wouldn't have, two months ago he was too busy downing pills and occasionally whiskey with the intent of beating his mother to the grave.

"No," he looks up from his half finished coffee to see Dave give him a shaky smile. Then he checks his watch, curses, and says goodbye. As his mentor runs out of the shop, Aaron sits back and looks at his coffee before drinking it slowly. The sun peaks out from some stormy clouds, and a few droplets of rain splash on the window, the humidity has died down. He feels peaceful, and clear.

Perhaps this is what 'better' feels like. He likes to think it does.

* * *

**I'm sorry for the delay in the update, I like to stay two chapters ahead, and two chapters ahead was difficult to write. I also got totally addicted to Knights of the Old Republic by AhmoseInarus, then watched episodes 4, 5, and 6 of Star Wars and spent several delusional days afterwards believing Star Wars to be real, and that I was a Jedi... but I won't go into that.**

**I hope you all enjoyed this one, and thank you to everyone who has review/alerted/favourited, I am forever grateful for that. I apologise for any grammar and or spelling mistakes, and if this story goes where I intend it to, Aaron will be back in the BAU soon :). Toodles for now :).**

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Criminal Minds, otherwise Reid's headache storyline would have went somewhere, and if anyone has any news on that I would be eternally grateful.**


	11. Chapter 11

"_I was carried, to Ohio in a swarm of bees. I never married, but Ohio don't remember me. I never thought about love, when I thought about home. The floors are falling out from, everybody I know. I'm on a bloodbuzz." _- Bloodbuzz Ohio - The National

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**Chapter 11**

It's a two hour train journey, and he doesn't have a book. This doesn't bother him, he can't really remember the last time he had the time to read a book. Criminological journals and case reports clearly didn't count, he vaguely recalls reading the Catcher In The Rye, but that was when Haley and Jack were still alive. He tries to shift his mind to other thoughts. The morning had been quiet, and leaving Emily had been harder than he thought. He was still angry with her, and things were strained, not tense, but strained nonetheless. Still… he missed the support system, the unconscious reassurance that everything was going to be o-kay. Her presence rendered him blind to the need to use, how it rose up, peaked, then rose higher than he though bearable. For the first time in weeks he notices how clammy and nauseous he feels, even the engine of the train seems to purr along to this thoughts.

_Justonehit. Justonehit. Justonehit. Justonehit._

He wishes he had music or… something! Anything to distract him. He feels worse when he can't think of a reason why he shouldn't take something, a few pills of vicodin, or even a syringe of morphine, dilauded, a line or two of heroin. He finds it strange that it isn't just one drug he's craving, ANYthing will do as long as it shuts his brain off long enough for him to accept reality as it is. That his family is dead, he is alone, and returning to that house he promised, (_promised!_) himself he would never have to visit.

He opens his eyes and releases his grip on the white plastic table in front of him. The weeks after their death nearly killed him. He shut himself off completely. In the first week he couldn't bring himself to go through the motions, there were no children to make him act like everything was going to be o-kay and al-right. The team tried to visit, knocked on his apartment door, called through the letter box. He doesn't remember most of that week, but what he can tells him he spent most of it curled in a ball. Folded in on himself, this wasn't happening, none of this was happening and he didn't have to face it… until Dave and Emily threatened to break his door down…

And that's when it reaches unbearable. A new unbearable that he knows he can't face without something. Part of his brain tries to conjure Emily, to see if that could stop him, but it's a hopeless attempt before he even begins. The train pulls into Richmond in twenty minutes, in another twenty he can be in an anonymous hotel, in thirty in a back alley. In less than an hour he can feel al-right, and o-kay again.

Time moves fluidly, fifty minutes have past since the train journey and he's back at his hotel with what the kid (he says kid although the dealer was in his early twenties) promised to be the best quality vicodin he'd had in awhile. He knows that means nothing, that the kid wanted to sell it and would have said anything to make the sale. Still, he likes the reassurance of the false words.

Sitting on the bed he pulls out three of the pills, his mind is protesting more strongly now, he promised (_promised!_) Emily and Dave he would stay clean, that he would at least try. But here he is, he didn't even make it off the train without having plans to use. He lets the pills slide back in the bag, and lies back till he's met with the ceiling. Is he that pathetic? Really? Unable to last a weekend? For a few minutes the unbearable urge becomes bearable again. For the first time in months his brain kick-starts back into logical Aaron Hotchner mode.

He's seeing his mom tomorrow, confronting her, because he isn't going to stay in his hell hole any longer than he needs to. If he uses now he'll lose a good five to six hours he could have spent preparing. Before he changes his mind he places the bag of pills in his go bag for lay-ter. Donning sweatpants and trainers he goes for a run through the streets. Music from bands he used to listen to pounds in his ears, and sweat forms on his brown. Yet there's something liberating about running, it distracts him, soothes him almost. He stops by a canal and watches boats bob up and down in the water, he feels at ease, in control. He runs for another forty five minutes before ducking into an anonymous café to get a bottle of water and a coffee. It's the first time in awhile he's felt in control, in charge.

He gets back to the hotel late. He stopped for dinner in another café on the way back from his run. As he climbs into the shower and lets the hot water rush down his mind goes to the pills again. The desire to use is there, but it's different. It's less urgent, less compelling, less of a com-pul-sion. He can detach himself. He reasons this must be good, at least, it's better than caving.

After the shower he changes into his pyjama's, there's no one and no place to dress up for, and he's tired, he always seems to be tired. The bed is comfy, the mattress is soft and either replaced often or hardly used, judging by the dents the chair made in the carpet the room is hardly used. This unsettles him for some reason. The room isn't lived in, of course it probably shouldn't be, but it's detached, cold, and he doesn't want to stay here longer than necessary. He sleeps with the lamp on. He's not scared of the dark, he just doesn't want any ghosts sneaking up on him. Aaron doubts his tenuous control could withstand that.

He wakes early, but that isn't what's bothering him. Thin rays of light peek through the sheer curtains and he quickly switches the lamp off, with the sun out it's almost ridiculous to imagine that something could sneak up on him. It takes Aaron a minute to locate the source of the problem. He feels… rested, nerves flare up a little, but he isn't weary, or tired, for the first time in awhile he hasn't woken up to a disturbing dream, or nightmare. A ghost of a smile graces his features. And it feels nice to almost smile.

He dresses in casual jeans and a jumper with trainers. His clothes need to be practical, and it isn't his plan to try and intimidate his mother, not that though, for a second, he thinks he could. He takes breakfast to go, it's a good two hour bus journey to where she lives.

He says he grew up in Richmond, and he did, but on the suburbs of the suburbs. To the point where the houses and shops are almost their own enclosed community. A community of Happy Families, and Smiling Children. The Public and Private spheres at their very best. As he gets closer, his nerves rise. The roads with the large houses and streets with local businesses make his stomach lurch, he doesn't want to admit that this very place scares him. It's still the same. Completely, and utterly unchanged. Mr Hollby still runs the corner shop he used to get sweets from every day after school, Mrs Fitch still appears to be handing clothes to charity shops. He doesn't want to see any of them if he can help it, he's here to see his mother, and only his mother.

The bus stops a few streets away from his house, and he leaves reluctantly, knowing the next one will take him to the lone bus station in the middle of nowhere. The streets are eerily quiet here, everyone appears to be away. When he gets to his old street, a row of impressive, upper middle class houses, he reasons that people must be working, and children must be at school. This place is like a ghost town, and walking down the street he feels like the only person on the earth.

He stops suddenly, the house is right in front of him. Nothing's changed, in fact is looks in a better condition that he remembers seeing it through his childhood. He walks up the driveway, and after stalling for a few minutes knocks on the door. Before he can convince himself that no one is home a woman answers. Her grey hair falls to her shoulders, and she stands at, at least five seven. Her clothes are stylish, but worn, and her face is more lined that he remembers it. Still, he remembers her. Aaron's shocked at first, thinking for a few minutes that his mother is as young as he remembers in his mind. She, however, doesn't seem as surprised, his mother nods slightly, then lets him in without a word.

It takes one step for him to break a twenty nine year old promise. Suddenly it doesn't matter anymore.

They go into the living room, and sit on opposing sides. No 'how are you?' or 'tea? Coffee?' both know he hasn't come for that. "What do you want?" she asks, her voice is still as quiet, as clear. He pauses for a minute, unsure what to ask first. He feels entombed in ornaments and ticking clocks, with portraits and pictures as silent, eager spectators.

"Why didn't you stop him?" his voice is just as quiet. His mother doesn't look surprised, Aaron reasons she figured this day would come soon.

"I guess" she says after what seems like forever "I guess you would know that by now Aaron. What with your profiling skills, and understandings of how people work, why do you think?" she asks, but he needs her to say it.

"I can't make any observations on this, I'm too close to think objectively." Again she takes forever to answer.

Forever is eleven minutes thirty four seconds.

"Physically I couldn't, he was stronger than me, and when it came to telling other people…" she hesitates, her hands show she's nervous, and her face looks distressed. "I needed people to think we were normal, that nothing was wrong with our family, if I hadn't then you and Sean wouldn't have gotten as nearly as far as you have," a cold fury takes over Aaron.

"It has nothing to do with our education, you were too scared to leave him, too scared that you couldn't raise the two of us by ourselves, that you'd fail," he pauses, trying to reign his temper in. She looks taken aback by his outburst, and all the more timid for it.

"You weren't the only one affected by it, he tormented me for years-"

"And you put up with that because in your head it was better than being alone, but when he turned on his son, then what? You couldn't leave for my sake? For the risk that he'd do that to Sean, were you that far gone in your delusion?" It almost feels nice to be able to attack without guilt, to get all this anger out. She doesn't answer straight away, they both know excuses won't cut it, he needs real, living answers.

"It was selfish yes, but I couldn't leave I… I didn't want to. I couldn't stand what he did to you, but I needed to stay, I can't explain it," she looks at Aaron. Her eyes swim with untold apologies but she knows they're not good enough, that nothing will ever really be good enough.

He stays silent for awhile, trying to gather his thoughts. A small ray of light shines onto the room, as it hit's the vase by the window it occurs to Aaron. Nothing will ever really make this okay, he just wishes his mother could meet him half way and give him some (any) closure. "What about the pills?" he asks quietly, and he watches as she freezes, in a _so-small-it-didn't-really-happen_ moment.

"You remember that," he gives her a look that tells her _'I'm not an idiot. Stop stalling, and get on with it'_. "That was part of the reason I couldn't leave-"

"You needed him to keep your habit paid for?" he says incredulously. But, partly to his relief, she shakes her head, he doesn't need to dislike her more than he does now.

"I was scared I'd fail on my own, I was scared people would find out, and every time there was a good memory it spurred me to try and kick the habit at least a little," she says quietly.

"And did you?"

"I haven't taken anything stronger than aspirin since he died," she says impartially.

"Do you want a medal?" he can't help but be angry, he doesn't think he's ever going to be anything but angry. She doesn't respond. "So all this happened because you were scared?" he states flatly, "Scared, deluded and usually too high to notice your delusions were, well, completely insane?" his words still overflow with venom. His mother frowns.

"No Aaron, they weren't just delusions, there were good times, you've just trained yourself to focus on the bad."

"Name some then, if you're so sure they happened," he snaps, knowing it's a trap. He didn't block out the good times completely, but he can't remember there being a lot.

"He taught you how to swim, how to ride a bike, we went on camping holidays, on trips to the cinema or the zoo. He even encouraged your interesting law enforcement by allowing you to get work experience at his office-"

"That one was for public prestige, to show off," Aaron says bitterly. His mother waves her hand dismissively.

"Does it matter? Although misguided the interest was still there, and it helped you get into college. The other times were good as well. So most of it was bad, but if you focus on the negative too much it'll kill you, although I'm sure you already know that," he lets her finish, and says nothing, he doesn't really know what else to say. He's got his answers, be they what he wanted or didn't, although to be fair he didn't know what he wanted in the first place. "Now is there anything else you'd like to discuss? How's Jack? And Haley? Thought I know you probably don't see her anymore."

And for a second, a magical anything-is- possible second, he wants to lie. Tell her they are okay, they he is going home to see Jack tonight. But that would be a Big Fat Lie, that wouldn't be _hon-est_. That would guarantee a visit from his ghosts in the lonely hotel room. Truth prevails, but it won't make anything better. "They're dead, they died in a home invasion," because telling her about the Reaper would be going too far. It's been a year since their deaths, but saying it out loud makes it Real.

Her shock and sadness is palpable. "Oh, but… my grandson… your…" he doesn't want to see her tears, he's tired of Grief's unwelcome companionship. It takes her twenty minutes before she can speak again. "I knew there must have been a reason for your visit Aaron, I just… you lost them both?" he can feel her eyes on him.

"It might be surprising to hear that I don't like talking about it," he looks up to meet her, his eyes flashing dangerously. She ignores this.

"When did this happen?"

"A year ago," he hears her sharp intake of breath.

"A year! A year and you didn't tell me?" her anger doesn't effect him like it used it "You didn't think it necessary to tell me my grandson had died? Aaron how dare you! What the hell were you doing? What were you thinking to believe that wasn't important!-" All it takes is a small _so-secret-it-doesn't-even-exist _moment for him to snap.

"No I didn't think it necessary to tell you! I had a complete mental breakdown mother, are you happy now? It's taken me this long to get everything back in order! Between this and dad you're lucky I didn't go crazy and end up in a mental hospital!" his shouting rings throughout the room, and the ghostly quiet returns. These walls haven't heard shouting like that in decades. They might break.

She doesn't say anything else on the topic. They sit in silence for another half hour before he stands up to leave. She stands to see him to the front door. They look at each other by the front door. One addict to another, it occours to him on some unconcious level that she knows. They both know this is the last time he's going to come here, the last time he's going to leave. "Goodbye, it was nice to see you," she gives a small smile. He gives her a small smile, and a hug. He owes her at least that.

With a short 'Goodbye' he turns and leaves, not bothering to look back. He doesn't have the closure he wants (_needs_). He walks to the bus stop, he doesn't know how to feel.

When he gets back to the hotel he moves straight to his bed. He feels drained. Though he hates himself for it, he understands, at least a little. She had no support system, no self confidence to try on her own, and the reassurance that there was always someone who could offer a fix. He thinks of the pills in his bag, she was an addict, and he doesn't want to be anything like her.

He has to leave tomorrow if he wants to see Sean, he wants at least a day to himself. The longer he lies on the bed he realises this closure isn't going to come anytime soon. Without thinking he moves to his go bag and takes out the pills. It's a com-pul-sion again. Swallowing them with his self loathing he leaves to find a bar. The pills and alcohol will get rid of the guilt. They have to.

_But he doesn't, can't, won't, end up like her_.

Aaron tries to convince himself that this was the right thing to do. Because there's only so much you can handle in one day, he reasons.

* * *

**Sorry for the late update, I've starting volunteering work. I also can't promise an update next week as it's my birthday, and I'll be freaking out at how old I am (with the metal age of 5, 19 is old :P). This chapter was really difficult to write, as I have no idea what Hotch's mother was supposed to be like, I couldn't really find many fanfics on it. My beta - who loves Hotch - doesn't touch the mother subject with a bargepole so she wasn't much help :P. Anyway I hope you all like it. Random info, the song at the start of this Bloodbuzz Ohio inspired this whole fic, it is awesome and I reccomend people listen to it for it's awesomeness. Anyway I apologise for any grammar and or spelling mistakes, and for those who have reviewed, alerted and favourited I am really grateful :) and I hope everyone is having good holidays.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds.**


	12. Chapter 12

_To anyone who is still reading this fic :S, firstly I apologise for such a horrendous length between updates, but I can tell you now this fic will get finished as I've just started the last chapter today and aim to finish it tonight. I'm sorry that I stopped updating, however at first life got in the way, then uni started up and before I knew it I was so busy working, studying etc I didn't have time for ff anymore. On top of this I lost interest in CM as a whole, ff and the episodes, as I don't like how they're focusing so much on the characters and not the original criminal side (at least that's how it comes across to me). I didn't want to write something that was going to end up forced, so I waited until term was over, and now that it is, exam results are in and my parents haven't killed me :D, I knew that I needed to finish it as I had an ending in mind and it isn't fair to just leave the story hanging, as I hate how many authors do that! So without further rambling, here you go. Also I'm sorry for any grammar and or spelling mistakes.  
_

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Criminal Minds.  
_

* * *

_"A man should never neglect his family for business" - _Walt Disney.

"_If you cannot get rid of the family skelton, you may as well make it dance"_ - George Bernard Shaw.

* * *

**Chapter 12**

The streets get busier the closer he gets to the town centre. Faces blur with neon signs, while chatter merges with traffic noises. None of it really matters. He finds himself stumbling into one of the more reserved clubs on the busy streets, although even here the music is loud and the people just as annoying.

He slowly fights his way to the front of the bar and orders straight whiskey. His eyes wander round the busy place, hundreds of intoxicated people move to their destinations, certain, for a few hours, that they are the centre of the universe. The first drink stings, and his third feels like claws are scraping and burning the back of his throat on the way down. By the fifth he doesn't think about it, or the obnoxious music blasting from the speakers. The more he drinks, the more the music ceases to be that, it becomes a pulse, a beat to keep his head from spinning in five different directions.

It's like being underwater.

From across the bar a woman smiles at him, and walks over. He doesn't know how his feet moved him a few feet from the bar, in a quiet, dark corner. Her stance isn't predatory, it isn't sexual. Discreetly in _so-secret-it-doesn't-exist_ movements she shows him a bag of white powder. His mind is reeling.

The toilets are disgusting, and unisex. Aaron isn't too worried about his activities, the rest of the bathroom's inhabitants are just as law abiding. He doesn't know how much he ingests, just that when it hits it overwhelms him. "Told you it was good," his companion smiles. She seems miles away.

He moves back to the club, away from the putrid toilets. He orders another drink, and one for the girl but she's disappeared. The beat of the music pulses in his head as he stands, a few feet from the writhing sweaty mass, and he basks in the high. Haley, Jack, Emily, the Reaper, his job, his past don't matter, they've never mattered. He lets go. The pulse of the music overtakes his thoughts. He's never felt so alive. He's never felt so sad, alone-

So wonderful. Just… wonderful.

* * *

His eyes open, but his vision is blurry. Two people are talking, and the walls are cream and peach. He's lying on a bed, the sheets feel coarse and cheap. "…it's not like I didn't have a choice, I just…"

"…everything looks for it sometimes…"

"…wonder what he's…"

"…just leave it, just…" their conversation fades in and out like a faulty radio. The world is swimming, brimming over, and spilling at the sides. His eyes focus, he's in his hotel, but it's a different room, he makes to stand and almost falls over again.

"Whoa! Be careful, that was some powerful shit," arms grab him, a man and a woman are there with him. He sees it's the one he originally got the drugs from.

"Who are you?" his voice is slurred slightly, but his senses are more alert.

"We got bored of the club and came back, we recognised you from down the hall and thought you'd better go back with us," the woman explains.

"Oh… thanks, I, do you want money, for the, the…" Aaron tries to offer, but he isn't sure if he's capable of handing out notes, let alone a correct amount.

"It's fine, you look liked you needed it," the man says quickly. Aaron frowns, uncertain at the kindness, but waves if off. He makes for the door, "You remember your room, don't you?" the man calls back.

"Fifty seven" Aaron replies, before opening the door. He walks down the hall until he sees a fifty seven, and after several minutes trying to turn a lock, he enters.

The room is still. Undisturbed. Aaron locks the door and collapses on the bed, in direct line of sight of the bathroom door. He finds it hard to think, he lets the drugs and alcohol overwhelm his mind once more. They numb him again just in time for Jack to walk out of the bathroom door. He's always covered in blood. He looks at Aaron, stares at him dully. Why is he always covered in blood? "You don't look so good daddy," he comments. Aaron doesn't reply. "You look like a bad guy, daddy," he goes on further. He can't take it anymore.

"Daddy isn't well," he says quietly. If the world would just _stop_ spinning!

"Mommy says you're a drug addict, what's a drug addict?" Aaron's eyes flash as Jack's voice goes from childlike wonder to a harsh adult. He doesn't have time to respond, Haley joins Jack.

"A drug addict is someone who is ill, your father is sick, Jack," Haley says quietly.

"He is sick," Jack repeats softly.

"Pathetic too, you know I do enjoy seeing what a mess you've become Aaron. This is a much better alternative to seeing you make that deal…" Aaron tries to scramble to his feet as the Reaper appears, his face distorted and bloody. He stumbles, and staggers to the wall. His back hits it with a thud. This is surreal, it can't be real! Yet they all stand there, Haley, Jack and Foyet, watching him, laughing, mocking.

"Get yourself together boy! You're more of a disappointment than even I predicted," his father joins the trio, glaring down at him. Aaron's legs fail him and he sinks to the floor.

"You were always a disappointment, you failed being a husband, a father, you failed your job when you got us killed," Haley's voice is cold.

"It's your fault daddy," Jack coos softly.

"Just leave me alone… leave me the fuck alone!" he yells weakly.

"Your failing sobriety, Aaron, in fact your not even trying," he doesn't even look at Emily, he doesn't want to. He is crack-ing up.

"I am trying I…" he tries.

"Then what was tonight?! You think you can hide back into it every time something bad happens?!" her voice is ten times louder. Then they all start talking, start yelling.

"…you're a disappointment!"

"…you got us killed?!"

"…you're going to lose your job!"

"…I hate daddy, he makes me hurt."

"…you've made a wonderful mess of things Aaron, and I don't even have to do anything!" Foyet mocks. Aaron places his hands over his ears, the high is fading, and the guilt is crippling.

"…you can't even last one night on your own without a hit…"

"…should have never married you…"

"…why won't it stop hurting daddy…" he places his hands over his ears, and buries his head in his knees.

"Leave me alone!" he screams to the empty room. He lifts his head, he's all alone.

There's a knock at the door. "Are you alright in there? You're disturbing the other guests" a voice calls.

"Fine, sorry, it was just a nightmare," he yells back, his voice uncertain.

"Alright Sir, if you need anything reception is open twenty four seven."

He stands, and clumsily makes his way to the bathroom. The lighting is harsh, too bright. He goes to the sink and runs the cold tap. The cold water is inviting. He leans over the sink until his breathing returns to normal. He feels almost sober. Aaron looks around.

"I'm alone, there's no one here," he says quietly.

He looks in the mirror. Reflected in the glass he sees the Reaper standing by the window in the bedroom. Then he's gone, like ashes in the wind. With a sigh Aaron goes back to the bedroom and switches the light on, it's four in the morning. He curls into a ball and stares into nothing.

He just wants the guilt to go away.

At some point Aaron must have fallen asleep, as he awakes suddenly, as if he's just been closing his eyes for a s-e-c-o-n-d. He glances at the digital clock, it's ten, he tries to think back to his dream, but his mind deadlocks itself shut. He reasons it probably wasn't important.

When he sits up he registers the pounding ache in his head, it beats on his skull threatening to blow it into fragments. Despite this he stands and makes his way to the shower, hungover or not he needs to get to New York today, he doesn't want to spend another day in this crappy town. The water of the shower is warm and inviting, it occurs to him he's uncommonly cold. Gritting his teeth when nausea strikes him suddenly, he decides his aim is no longer to get to New York, but to make it through the day alive. He glances at the water, and for a fraction of a second he's washing blood off his hands. He rests his head against the cool tile of the shower. Yeah, he is crack-ing up.

The shower refreshes him, makes him feel slightly better, and suddenly the task of packing his things and getting to the airport isn't as difficult. Sipping on a bottle of water, he waits outside for the taxi. The city is noisier than usual, busier, and he is freezing slowly.

The taxi takes twenty five minutes.

The driver (thankfully) is not one for small talk, but Aaron reasons a glare or two would make him shut up. Rumours in the FBI Academy are that one glare has a forty seven percent mortality rating amongst recruits. He would like to keep things like that.

The airport is small, but crowded, and Aaron is semi convinced his head will explode. He sits in the departure lounge early, sipping a coffee and watching the planes take off, his mind unable to distract him from last night. He's angry, at himself this time, for getting so out of control. He's seen countless cases where victims had been victims purely due to their inability to assess the situation before it was too late. And even if it hadn't been a serial killer, or a murderer, he could have been killed by plain accident. He rubs his sleepy eyes, he isn't sure if he wants that anymore. Or if he ever did.

They board quickly and soon he finds himself sitting by the window. Fifty minutes of peace before he has to call Rossi and convince him he is o-kay. He doesn't feel anything close to o-kay though.

Fifty minutes goes faster than he thinks, and Aaron finds himself walking out of the airport and hailing a taxi. Then _toosoontoosoon_ he's in his hotel room, sitting on the solitary single bed, staring at his phone. He's lied to his mentor before, it's not the lies that are bothering him, it's the vulnerability, how badly wrong that last night could have went. It's the seeing his dead family, their killer, his father, and work colleague in the early hours of the morning. Is he going crazy after all?

Swallowing the fears of his sanity he dials Rossi's number "Hey Hotch, how's New York?" Dave answers after the third ring.

"Busy and loud, how's the BAU?" he asks.

"Busy and entertaining, Reid had to pay for a new coffee machine, and we've had a lot more consults than usual."

"No cases?" Hotch asks.

"Not yet, most of these seem pretty controlled, and more like botched murders by individuals, or a misreading of the evidence. How was Richmond?" he asks.

"I didn't storm out this time, we said a cordial goodbye," Dave chuckles.

"It's good to see you've learnt some manners. Have you seen Sean yet?"

"No, I'm going to see him later tonight, he doesn't know I'm here," Aaron isn't quite sure what his plan of action is.

"Alright, well you know what's best, keep me updated," Dave instructs.

"Will do," he hangs up. That went better than he thought. Lying back on the bed he toys with the idea of taking a short nap, he'll need all the sleep he can get.

* * *

He wakes up, disorientated, at six. He feels a lot better, his head isn't as sore, he can think better, and he doesn't feel as sick. Drinking his remaining water with more confidence, Aaron looks out of the window at the street below. The city that never sleeps is living up to its reputation, people scurry by like little ants, and matchbox cars line perfectly in a traffic jam. He stretches and grabs his wallet and hotel key, the restaurant isn't far from here.

He's only been there once, it's an up market joint that gets good reviews (not that he checks), and seems to do well financially (not that he gets Garcia to check). As he gets closer to Twenty Three South Street he isn't sure if seeing Sean is really a good idea. He knows he has to, before he leaves the city, but the timing is bad, and his nerves are acting up. Aaron stops in the middle of the bustling street, he never used to let nerves get in the way of what had to be done (and this has to be done). He wondered when he became so cautious.

Getting in is difficult, the place is upmarket and getting ready for opening, waiters and waitresses get tables ready, and he assumes the chefs are too busy cooking. "Sir, you are aware we aren't open yet," asks a man Aaron can only guess is the host.

"I'm looking for Sean Hotchner," Aaron asks, holding his ground. He can feel the host's scrutinising gaze, logging in tired eyes, his pale face and seen-better-days clothing. "Is he working today?" because maybe asking another question will make the host do his job.

"Why do you want to see him?" Aaron's eyes narrow.

"The nature of the visit is none of your business, would you please tell him I am here," his voice is like steel. The two men stare each other down, until the host realises Aaron isn't going to leave anytime soon.

"Who shall I say is calling?" he asks with weary indignation.

"Aaron Hotchner," Aaron replies quietly, glaring at the man's retreating back. When he is alone, it occurs to him that he has to tell his brother the truth, no things aren't going well… yes I have been lying to you for months. Yes it is because-

"Aaron? What are you doing here?" Sean's surprise draws Aaron out of his thoughts.

"I need to speak to you, also I'm aware this probably isn't a good time," Aaron says quickly.

"Uh… sure, will you be around at half ten? I'm locking up tonight and we can talk then if you want," Aaron gives a small smile.

"Ten's good," they stand awkwardly for a few moments before Aaron turns to leave "I'll see you later," he tries to say casually.

"Yeah…" Sean echo's his voice showing a note of worry.

He kills the time aimlessly walking, he's been to New York before, seen everything that's worth seeing, and then everything that isn't. He feel's slightly dazed, although he knows it's the after effects of the hangover. Getting another bottle of water from a coffee shop, he wonders how he ever managed to do this and still run his team as efficiently as he did. How he got through each day, and killers were still caught, when, right now, thinking of how he's going to talk to his brother feels like an impossibility. It occurs to him that, maybe, he really can't keep doing this.

Half ten comes round faster than he'd like, and he finds himself standing in the near empty restaurant, waiting for Sean to finish clearing up. It's a small-ish place, with booths for (_so-secret-they-don't-even-exist_) activities, and tables in the middle of the restaurant for Loud Proclamations, or a lack of mind at being overheard. After ten minutes Sean comes back and they sit by the kitchen, most of the room is dark, and with the tables stacked so high Aaron feels uncomfortable. "What is it you need to talk about?" Sean asks, he's sitting back in his chair, trying to smile and treat everything like a laugh. But his eyes are anxious, his foot taps quickly against the carpeted floor, and his posture is just a little too fixed to be relaxed.

Aaron knows what is going through Sean's mind. Cancer, stress related illness, dying, after all it isn't often that Aaron visits. "It's not cancer," he says immediately, and finds it almost funny the way Sean's posture relaxes. Sitting up straighter, Sean tries to put on a serious face for his brother.

"That's good… what is it then?"

"After Haley and Jack's death I started using narcotics, I'm on leave for a month to get myself 'sorted out,'" he waits for Sean's reaction, his brother frowns.

"So… you're trying to tell me that you, Aaron Hotchner who always takes things seriously and never steps out of line, is a junkie?" he pauses, then laughs "And I always wanted to be the hardcore one," he comments, as Aaron tries not to suppress a smile. He'd forgotten his brother's tendency to turn everything into a joke, perhaps they _were_ adopted. "You're alright though? You said you were on leave, did your superiors find out?" and just like that he's back to concerned.

"No, not really, they gave me the leeway of a month to work things out. I've overdosed, and Rossi stepped in," Sean nods, his eyes widened slightly, but overall he's nonchalant.

"So how's it going? 'Sorting things out'," he raises his hands in fake quotation marks. Aaron shrugs.

"Not very far, Prentiss and Rossi have me under house arrest almost, with forced psychiatry sessions, but I visited mom."

"You went back there?!" Sean stares at Aaron as if he's grown a second head.

"I had to talk to her, I'm not going to go back though."

"Did she yell at you? She always goes on about how you never visit to me," he studies Aaron closely.

"Not really, we argued, but we were hardly going to get on brilliantly anyway."

"I don't see why you can't visit her at least at Christmas, she never got to see Jack-" Sean starts, and Aaron mentally sighs, he isn't going to get into the argument again.

"She just sat there Sean, and let it happen, she never stopped him, never told anyone, never tried to get away. There… there were times when she could have, but she didn't, I know the psychology and the sociology behind it… I'm just not that big a person as to excuse it," the restaurant is doused in silence. Both brother's are lost in their own thoughts. "This place is nice," Aaron blurts randomly, perhaps subconsciously to get off of the topic of their mother.

"Thanks, you should eat here sometime, the food is awesome if I do say so myself," Sean finishes with a smirk. Silence falls again, but this time it's more comfortable. Aaron isn't sure how long it lasts until Sean speaks. "What do you think dad would make of this?"

"Of what?" Aaron looks at Sean, both have troubled expressions, their mother is MineFieldLand, this is a blood-thirsty Shark Tank.

"Of us, how we've turned out," Aaron's about to say 'disappointed' straight of the bat, before he stops himself. He thinks about it. Their father is not a man Aaron can see objectively, visiting his mother made that as clear as day to him.

"I… I don't know. He would be annoyed that you gave up the bar, and furious if he knew about the narcotics, but as people… I can't answer that," Sean nods, although Aaron knows his answer was anything other than what he expected.

"I'm sorry," Sean says quietly.

"About what?" Aaron asks, Sean tolls his eyes.

"About how cheesy this is going to come across. Can't you just profile me so I don't have to say it?" humour glinting in his younger brother's eyes.

"You're sorry that we've grown apart, and they we're not always there fore each other," Aaron's voice is detached, Sean nods.

"That," Aaron shrugs.

"If it helps, not even my team knew something was up, and they're some of the best profilers in America," Aaron consoles, but Sean shakes his head.

"You don't get it, you don't need to be a profiler to know people. I know family's aren't as close as people like to make out, that they don't always notice when there's a problem. But for me it was obvious that since Christmas you had some problems going on. I put it down to grief, and anger, maybe you were drinking, but as I didn't see any hints to anything like that, I kept that one to myself," Sean looks Aaron in the eye with an intensity that makes Aaron certain he would have made one hell of a lawyer, or interrogator. "But the point is you weren't acting like my older brother. You may have been able to fake being okay to your colleagues, superiors, and friends, but… When we were younger, and you told me things were going to be okay. I believed you. You had a certainty, a conviction in your words that deep down you also believed. It's not there now. You couldn't convince yourself things were going to work out, because you didn't know if they would, you still don't. Your hands are shaking, you're getting anxious, you aren't as clean as you want others to believe." When Sean finishes, the room is silent.

Before Aaron can stop himself he starts laughing. It's loud, it's real. "I never knew I was that great a comedian," Sean remarks. It takes Aaron a good five minutes to get a hold of himself.

"And you're sure you don't want to be a lawyer, or work for the FBI?" Aaron asks, still chuckling. Sean's expression lightens, and he laughs as well.

It feels nice, Aaron reasons, to have someone know he's completely out of his depth and scared shitless. For the first time in awhile he's relaxed, content, and as his conversation with Sean turns to the more trivial, "Capitan America could kick Batman's arse!" He feels like something's changed, although everything's the same. He's still struggling. And he's no more certain of himself now, than he was months ago at Christmas. But for a few hours he can relax.

For a few hours he doesn't have to pretend.


	13. Chapter 13

_"One_ _often calms one's grief by recounting it" - _Pierre Corneille**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

The next day he meets Sean for breakfast at his apartment. It's a clichéd, sparse, studio, and Aaron gets the impression Sean could, and would, happily leave at a moment's notice, if the need arose. Sean cooks them pancakes, and Aaron watches from one of the kitchen stools. His brother is relaxed, the whole atmosphere is peaceful, and Aaron is amazed at how better their relationship has gotten over the past few years. When they're served up Aaron looks dubious, "I swear they are better than they look," Sean says as he places his plate clumsily down next to Aaron's. The smiley face drawn in syrup makes him laugh, "You need to smile more."

Tentatively Aaron takes a small bite, they are good, better than hotel pancakes, light-years better than his. "They're good," he comments.

"Come on, they're more than good," Sean insists, Aaron relents.

"Okay, they're amazing," Aaron admits grudgingly, Sean raises his hands to the ceiling in victory.

"Wooo hooo! I make the best pancakes ever!" Aaron is surprised Sean doesn't proceed to run round his apartment with his t-shirt covering his head. It makes him slightly sad that he doesn't know his brother better, that he doesn't have the time to get to know him better. Profiling, Aaron realised a long time ago, can't substitute proper conversation.

They spend the morning wandering round New York without direction, as if they were kids waiting for their parents to finish the weekly shopping. Sean offered to let him stay at his apartment for another night, but he's working, and Aaron just wants to get back to Quantico. "So I'll visit in a few weeks when you're back at work, you need some fun in your life," Sean jokes, but the concern is there, and for once Aaron appreciates it.

"Sure, if you let me cook this time," he grins as Sean's face turns into mock horror.

"No! Please! Anything but your cooking!" he begs, Aaron laughs.

"Never!" Aaron jokes, watching his brother's face get more horrified by the second.

"Remember that time you gave me food poisoning?" Sean's eyes flash, with an evil smile on his face.

"It was one time! And you're going to have to suffer my cooking, man up!" Hotch orders.

"Yessir!" Sean mock salutes. The last call for the train is announced.

"I was good seeing you Sean," they embrace before Aaron steps onto the train.

"It was good to see you too, Aaron," it's sincere, and Aaron smiles.

The train journey isn't that long, and Aaron feels peaceful, everything seems sorted, as sorted as they can be. He wants to spend another night in his apartment, to get used to being alone, he convinces himself. Although he knows it's a lie. He just doesn't want to face Emily.

His apartment is still, empty. He stares from the doorway, he just needs to summon the courage to take that one step… and he crosses the threshold. He doesn't feel much different. Dumping his bags in his room, Aaron makes to head for the kitchen. It's five, dinner time, although he isn't hungry, and something makes him pause. His room is adjacent to the guest room, it's door half open. The room hasn't been touched since that night the ambulance came. He enters the room cautiously, as though a lion is there, lying in wait.

He'd sorted through all of Haley's boxes with Jessica, and she'd offered to help him sort through Jack's, but he'd refused. Because he could do it himself. Because really he didn't want to face it. Because by that point he was already struggling. One of the four boxes is open, pictures of Jack's, crayons, and toys are scattered on the floor like crime scene evidence. Pictures of 'Daddy catching the bad guy', or Haley, Jack and Aaron under the same roof again. He breathes in sharply. He doesn't remember his overdose, just that he was upset, more distressed than usual. He moves towards the mess.

He can do this.

It's just a few boxes.

He should prove (_has to!_) prove he's getting b-e-t-t-e-r.

"It's just a few boxes," he mumbles.

Gathering plastic bags from the kitchen he tries to work on the boxes. Sidestepping the toys and drawings he moves straight to the top one, his clothes. "It's just material," he whispers to himself as Spider-man pjama's, first school uniforms, and a suit he wore to a friend's wedding are put into the bags. With one box down he moves to another, the less personal clothes, t-shirts, socks, pants, they're easier to discard.

Then only two are left, toys, drawings, and books. Aaron swallows, his hands shake. He knows he should stop, he's already sorted two, that's enough, bags for charity shops and the bin are in two separate piles. Yet something makes him unable to stop. He has to do this, he has to get it over with. He opens the box with books, recreational, and learning, with the odd school jotter. He doesn't know why, but he picks up the one with '_English_' written in bold, crude letters. He looks around guiltily, as if the act is immoral, before opening the jotter. There's various words like '_dog_' '_name_' '_house_', Aaron's eyes scan the four sentences.

_'My name is Jack Hotchner'_

_'I have a mommy, and a daddy'_

_'I live in a house.'_

_'For Christmas I want a puppy.'_

Tears threaten to pool over, because he remembers talking with Haley about getting a puppy. The conversation seems fresh, like a just-yesterday conversation. Blinking back tears he slams the jotter shut, it falls to the ground with a small thud. He sits in silence, gaining composure. It's seven, but he _has to!_ do this tonight.

Without knowing why, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials. She answers after two rings. Her voice is surprised. "Hotch! What's wrong? I thought you were on leave."

"I… I know it's short notice, but I need you to come over," his voice is strangled.

"Sure, are you okay?" she asks, and he can hear her moving. He settles for the truth.

"Not really."

He doesn't move from his position on the floor until he hears the buzzer from downstairs. He hasn't been waiting long, he forgets how close her house is to him. "Hotch, are you alright?" she's concerned, and nervous, and Aaron isn't sure if calling JJ was the best idea. He lets her in.

"I, I was sorting through some of Jack's things, and, and I need help to go through them, I… I would have asked someone else but, they don't have children they…" he can't finish.

"Don't understand?" she says softly, Aaron nods, he can't look at her. "Of course," she says, determined, brave, and he gives her a small smile of thanks.

"I was sorting the stuff out… what to give to charity, and what to throw away," he says listlessly from the doorway, as JJ inspects the two piles.

"Aren't you going to keep anything?" she asks, Aaron stalls for a few minutes.

"I don't really want to," he says slowly, JJ shakes her head.

"You say that now, but in time you will, come here," he obeys. She pulls out the Spider-man pjama's, "What about these?" she asks.

"They, were his favourite," he swallows his voice low. JJ gives a sad smile.

"Keep some things then," and she hands them in pjama's. He creates a separate 'keep' pile.

By nine they are finished sorting. JJ offers to take the charity bags down to her car to give them away, Aaron helps her and doesn't protest. The 'keep' pile consists of his Spider-man pjama's, his favourite story books, some school jotters, a few drawings of the three of them, and a Batman doll. He puts them in his room. The bin bags stay in the guest room, he will throw them out tomorrow.

JJ stays for a cup of tea, and they sit in the living room in silence. He's aware that she's watching him, but it's just that, watching, she isn't analysing his every move. It doesn't feel so bad. They sip their tea quietly, his mug is half empty before he attempts to speak. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"It's no problem, I… I'd like to think that if the roles were reversed you'd…" she lets the sentence trail off.

"I, I just thought because you had Henry that, that you'd understand," he looks at her at long last. He expected pity in her eyes, that same sympathetic glaze given to every victim's family members. Instead she looks more sombre, sad but not pitying.

"You did really well today, how are you holding up in general?" she asks, and it occurs to Aaron that she doesn't know, that she has no idea. Sometimes he thinks he's teetering on the brink, other times he feels… almost okay.

"I don't know yet," he says quietly, she waits for him to continue. "Sometimes I think I'm doing okay, and other days are a lot harder," she leans forward, her gaze steady.

"When you can distinguish between the 'good' days and the 'bad' days, it normally means your making some progress to normal," and she gives a supportive smile.

"The pain, on the other hand, is still the same. It's like they, they were killed yesterday…" he takes another sip of tea, it grounds him slightly.

"The pain," she says softly "The pain is something that takes longer to leave."

"Does it ever go away?" he asks, and he sees her pause that pause people take when they deicide between Lying and Truth Telling.

"It goes away eventually from everyday thoughts, and diminishes with time, but it can take years, and even then some days it still hurts just as much," her voice grows quieter, and quieter, until Aaron thinks it will fade altogether.

"Thanks," he says again.

"What for?" she asks, confused.

"For telling me the truth."

"I didn't see the point in lying."

She stays after the tea as been drunk, neither of them wants to move although the clock is inching closer to eleven. "How do you feel about returning to work?" she asks, Aaron shakes his head.

"I don't know. The job defines me, but it's ruined everything," he blinks a few times. He's tired.

"Why did you join the FBI? Why not stay a prosecutor?" she asks, he laughs bitterly at this.

"I've been asking myself the same question for sometime," pause "I didn't like how many criminals, who were guilty, weren't prosecuted, or prosecuted fairly. I wanted to make sure the 'bad guys' could go away for longer."

"Do you still want to do that?" he closes his eyes, and thinks. The feelings are still there, the hope for justice, the desire to fight crime, they're small, but they're there.

"I think I do," he says thoughtfully. "Why did you become a media liaison?" he asks, the question surprises her. She takes longer to answer.

"It's a security thing really. When my sister… killed herself, all my parents could tell me was 'everything's going to be okay'. I knew it wasn't. I guess I thought if I could reassure people, lie to them sometimes, that criminals would be caught, or something would be done that… that one day I'd believe… I…"

"You thought that if you could convince others they would receive closure from their relative's death, and see the belief in your words, that maybe you could convince yourself to believe your parents. After all you're doing the same thing they did on a wider scale," JJ looks at Aaron.

"I guess so, it's difficult to explain, I just wanted closure" Aaron gives a small shrug.

"These questions don't usually have easy answers, did you ever get closure?" he asks. And this time she stops completely, hand still at her face.

"Not completely, and I don't think I ever will," Aaron digests this silently. He's so lost in his thoughts he almost misses her next words "I think I'd better go, if that's okay with you," she gives him one last worried glance. He unfreezes, and smiles in appreciation.

"It's fine," his voice is subdued. She stands and stretches, before grabbing her jacket off the kitchen counter. He walks her to the door. "I really can't thank you enough," he says quietly, she gives another sad smile.

"It's alright, I'll make sure they go to good charities," and Aaron almost breaks down right there and then. Pulling himself together he says goodnight to JJ, before turning back on his empty flat.

He walks to his room slowly, and see's Jack's stuff lying on his bed. He's tired, and he wants to shove it in a drawer and forget about it, but he stops himself. With shaking hands he places the pjama's in a drawer, and books on the small shelf in the corner. He places the Batman on his desk, and glances at the drawings, and jotters. Finding a paper folder he places them inside and puts them by his bookcase.

Aaron turns back to his bed, and sees one drawing he's left out. Haley, Jack and himself stand under a yellow sun, they have a house next to them, and a new pet dog. Taking in a sharp breath, it catches in his throat as a tear rolls down his cheek. His throat hurts a dull, burning ache. He places the picture up right on his desk, and turns to the photo frame on the beuaru. He hasn't looks at their faces properly in a year. Picking it up gently, he traces his fingers over their faces, his breathing is disjointed and ragged.

"I really miss you guys," he whispers through tears. He places the picture back on the beauro. Moving to his bed he knows they won't visit him tonight.

In a sea of grief, a small droplet of relief soaks his pillow.

* * *

_Thanks for the response from the last chapter, its good to know people still like this fic and are still reading it! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please R&R and constructive criticism is very welcome :). I apologise for any grammer and spelling mistakes, I tried to get most of them. _

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Criminal Minds, I'm just bored. _


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